


The Nightmare of my Choice

by mirrorkill



Series: The Fault Tree [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Emotional Manipulation, Euthanasia, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Peter, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, No Sex, Succubi & Incubi, Surgery, Swearing, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:50:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 106,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorkill/pseuds/mirrorkill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“... it was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Rogue werewolves and incubi and ghosts, oh my!: Life in Beacon Hills continues to be the epitome of weird.</p><p>Especially for emissary-in-training Stiles, who's being literally haunted by a parade of Beacon Hills' deceased, who are trying to compel him to embrace the darkness in his heart. His only source of comfort is when he's writing to an emotionally constipated Beta werewolf. When <i>Derek Hale</i> is your anchor to sanity? Yeah, weird might be an underestimation.</p><p>Stiles is well suited to the path of an emissary; in fact, something important about him has already been overlooked. Something that could have deadly consequences both for him, and for everyone else...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** M for violence, not sexytimes! Ghosts, canon-level violence, minor surgery reference, allusions to euthanasia and dub con/non-con (but not explicitly in-text), minor character death. (These are all I can think of at the moment. I am always open to adding more.) This is my version of 3B, but without the kitsune storyline or Kira; consider this an AU canon diversion from the end of 3A. ♥
> 
>  **Thank you:** to using-this-name, who I couldn't have done this without in the slightest. Taupefox59 for being a superstar! Puckboum for the amazing art, I can't believe how talented you are. Educatingthepeasants, who got me off to a good start. Ihavetogetoutofhere and fatelessnight, thanks for volunteering to help. I appreciated it more than you'll know. :) Oh, and thanks to everyone on tumblr who was so encouraging! :D (I don't know how you found me. My URL is totally the sneakiest ever.)
> 
>  **Please check out the art post!** : Notice all the so very pretty illustrations included in this fic? Puckboum spent the time to ANIMATE THEM. Seriously. Moving gifs. They are the best things EVER. I couldn't include them in text just in case people had trouble seeing gifs, but if you can, I would love you to go and [check all the art out](http://puckboum.livejournal.com/19141.html). You won't regret it!! :)

 

 

 

[[animated version](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/puckboum/23806187/16737/16737_original.gif)]

**Prologue**

_He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath:_

_"The horror! The horror!”_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

It's still light outside when she leaves the library. It's a sensible decision when one lives in Beacon Hills. Everyone knows that there are certain things you don't talk about when you live in this godforsaken town. You don't talk about the fact that lacrosse is the weirdest sport in the world. You don't mention the Sheriff's wife to the Sheriff. You don't mention the fact that Beacon Hills has a population of things that go bump in the dark.

It's why she makes sure to leave while the sun's still high enough in the sky for her to make it home.

The girl tugs her jacket on, and hefts her bag of research higher onto her back. The new replacement teacher for Mr. Harris is a dick, but he's a dick who doesn't exclusively target Stiles Stilinski anymore, and that makes the other lagging students fair game now too. She has a semester's worth of back reading to do, and that's just if she wants to get back on track.

A lot of it feels like running to stay still.

She sticks to the sidewalk that runs by the main road, because it's better lit and has more traffic. It's a longer walk, but it's safer than cutting through the preserve. There are stories going back as far as anyone can remember about that place.

They say there are creatures in that forest. Creatures that can take you in the space of a blink. Creatures that make their home in the shadows, and worship the night.

Creatures that can rip out your heart and eat it in front of you so fast that you're still alive when they finish.

She walks faster without even realizing it, gripping her jacket tighter like it's armor.

But it's not armor. And when the beast comes up behind her, quiet as a breeze, and grabs her, her human hands aren't enough. She screams out for help, an incoherent yell, but an inhuman voice whispers roughly in her ear, _sshhh._

She screams a second time, because there has to be someone around, _surely._ But there's only the too-distant rumble of cars. She's alone. The beast slits her throat with one elongated spiked hand, and claws open her forehead with another, and it's so fast all she feels is a burn of pain.

And then she feels nothing else, forever.

 

 

 

 

****

**Chapter One**

_“They had behind them, to my mind, the terrific suggestiveness of words heard in dreams, of phrases spoken in nightmares.”_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

The dream ends sharply when he's awoken by a shout.

Stiles' heart is pounding, and he struggles for breath, his fingers clawing in the edge of his sheets. It takes him a long minute to realize that the blood rushing in a flood over his ears, the bright lights, the hands holding him down… it was all a dream. It was his own shout, startling him out of it.

He's in his own bed, in his own room, and he's safe.

Stiles forces himself to exhale, slow and steady, and he focuses on the physical sensations around him. The dream's thick in his head, and there's a bitter taste in the back of his throat that has the coppery zing of blood. His tongue feels numb; sometime during the dream he must have bitten it.

_Awesome._

Well, it's not the first time it's happened.

Stiles pushes himself into a sitting position, and his head tells him sharply that it's a bad idea; the headache is pounding at the same rate as his heart. There's definitely blood in his mouth, though, and that trumps a headache, so he staggers out of his room into the hall, heading for the bathroom.

His father's already there at the door of his own room, lurching up to check on him, hair sticking every which way, bedclothes rumpled and dishevelled, and the bags under his eyes seem to be packing some luggage of their own. Stiles' gut twinges with guilt. Since the root cellar, his dad has been working double his usual hours, and Stiles can't help but feel that it's his fault. That if he'd been able to keep his dad from the truth a little longer—

"You okay, kid?" Dad asks, concern overwhelming the fatigue on his face. Stiles can't help the surge of relief that he has his dad, that he's _okay._ "Hell of a shout." Stiles looks down at his dad's hands; he's holding Stiles' aluminum baseball bat. His dad follows his gaze, sheepishly. "I was a little worried you were being attacked by kanimas or something."

"I'm pretty sure you can hug all the issues out of a kanima," Stiles says, because that's what he's going to mock Jackson with _forever_ if he comes back to Beacon Hills. Meaningful cuddles saving the day. Jackson must be _mortified_.

His dad is looking at him with somewhat of a dubious expression. It's the usual expression people have around Stiles. "It was just a nightmare," Stiles hurries on to reassure his dad. "Y'know. Blood. Mayhem. Werewolves." He waggles his fingers.

His dad grunts. "Yeah, I can empathize. I think I'm having a lifetime's amount of dreams about being buried alive."

They stand for a moment, looking bleary-eyed at each other. Stiles doesn't really want to burden his dad with more of his worried, negative feelings, and his dad does a weird mini freak out if he has to talk about his emotions for more than three seconds, but they're both frozen with the knowledge that yeah, they should probably man up and talk about their feelings.

Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. "I'm gonna—" Stiles points at the bathroom.

His dad sags with obvious relief. "Knock yourself out, kiddo." He turns to push back into his bedroom, because he's not working today, and he needs all the sleep he can get. "Not _literally,_ " he tags on in a yell as Stiles clatters through the door and nearly trips over his own feet. Stiles winces guiltily in the direction of his dad's room, and pushes the door shut behind him.

He staggers up to the sink, and starts running the hot faucet, sterilizing his hands as best as he can with soap and water before pulling down a clean towel from the top shelf and pressing it against his tongue. As he does, he catches his own reflection in the bathroom mirror and has to fight not to jump backwards in horror.

Man, Stiles needs to _never_ ask Danny if he's attractive at whatever-ass-o'clock in the morning it is, because the answer will be a resounding _no._ He looks _terrible,_ like someone drained all the color out of him, painted him in grey and black, and shoved him onto the set of the new Addams' Family movie as an extra.

 _Cousin Stiles,_ he thinks, leaning against the sink, tipping his head forward and shoving the towel in his mouth to stop the bleeding. It has a ring to it. He wishes for the thousandth time that his mom and dad weren't only siblings. No awesome cousins for him.

On the flip side, no _annoying_ cousins. Scott has a cousin on his dad's side, and he's no walk in the park. Then again, Scott's uncle is no shining example of humankind. Add Scott's dad Kyle to the mix, and Scott's True Alpha status isn't what confirms him as an unexplainable, amazing phenomenon of existence; his kindness and loyal personality is what does that. How Scott McCall turned out to be a decent person despite having half of his dad’s DNA is a miracle.

Or maybe Melissa's DNA elbowed all the evil McCall DNA to one side.

Stiles would believe it. Melissa McCall is a force of _nature._

His thoughts roam for the fifteen minutes he holds the towel against his bitten tongue, and it's hard to ignore the way his chest feels different now. Heavier. Weighed down with something. It's like a magnet, and the more bad feelings Stiles lets himself think, the more of his negative thoughts swim up to join it. He takes a deep breath, counts backwards from fifteen, and starts to count his breaths, extending how long he exhales for every few cycles of breath. Who knew the meditation techniques he learned at the beginning of his ADHD diagnosis would actually be helpful?

By the time the bleeding's stopped, and Stiles has put the towel in the laundry basket and rinsed his mouth out with cold water, he's feeling almost calm again as he watches his blood swirl down the sink into the drain.

He pads back across the hallway into his room, trying his best to be quiet so as not to wake his dad again, and tries to remember if his phone is charging, or where he might have thrown it aside yesterday. He's been toying with the idea of messaging Cora and Derek; Cora texted them all with a disposable cellphone number the day after the two Hale siblings left Beacon Hills. But Stiles can't help feeling they would like less connection to this town, not more.

He doesn't know if _he_ would stay in Beacon Hills if his dad and Scott weren't here. The town is stained with bad memories, like a scar. Stiles' hand moves automatically to his chest. Yeah, he can picture the wound around his heart. Like a belt, locked around it and growing tighter.

Stiles closes his door, wincing at the small click, and turns to his desk, where he normally leaves his phone to charge. Only his movement is frozen halfway, his mouth dropping open automatically, probably in a comedic fashion.

Stiles can't care what he looks like right now.

Not when Erica Reyes is sitting on his bed, smiling at him widely.

 

"Wow," Erica says, when it's clearly apparent that Stiles is in shock. "I always used to long for the day that I could make Stiles Stilinski speechless, just by the magic of my appearance."

She's exactly like Stiles remembers her from the last time he saw her alive, even down to the tears in her panty hose that he can't help tracking with his eyes as she crosses her long legs. She smiles wider on seeing his eye movements, and she tosses her long golden curls over her shoulders, leaning back on his bed seductively.

"You happy to see me?" Her eyes, thick with the distinctive make-up she favored post-bite, flick down, and she pouts exaggeratedly when Stiles' body doesn't react the way she wants it to. "Maybe not." Her appearance flickers momentarily, and for just that second, she looks like she did the _last_ time Stiles saw her. Limp and pale and lifeless. It doesn’t last long at all—she’s back to golden hair and flushed cheeks in the blink of an eye—but Stiles knows his brain is going to cling onto that image of her for a long time.

"Erica." Stiles fights the impulse to cover his mouth with his hands, because her name feels like it has since she died; sorrow, sadness, _mourning._ He hates that it feels like that. He’s probably said her name a million times since her funeral, and it’s never got any better, it’s never hurt less even though he’s spent days and days _wanting_ it to stop being painful. And now it’s like hope has been handed to him on a platter, Erica’s been _literally_ delivered right to his room— and it just makes it worse.

Because he knows she’s dead. He’s seen her body. He stood by the graveside as they lowered the coffin down. She’s dead, and dead people don’t come back. _Not even when they promise not to go_. He swallows that thought back, because that belongs to another dead woman, another time, and Erica deserves all his grief right now. Her death is fresher. And this moment — this dream — this hallucination — this whatever the damn hell it is, is just serving to remind him how much he _misses_ Erica.

Erica flinches at the way he says her name, but she doesn't move to come closer to him. "We thought you were dead," he says, because the silence and the confusion is starting to hurt, and his desire for answers overcomes his shock. "There was—We found your body. How—Was it like Peter? Peter and Lydia? Did—"

Erica looks at him, her brown eyes wide and trained on him, and then she just _keeps looking,_ and Stiles' questions trail off.

"Not even possible," Stiles murmurs, answering his own sudden hypothesis without voicing it, and he walks forwards, a hand outstretched, fingers grazing the space where Erica's sitting on his bed, and she's just _gone_ again.

His bed's empty, and Stiles stumbles forward with the movement to touch her.

She's not even _there._ Stiles lets out a low moan, and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. It's because he's tired. It's wishful thinking. Maybe he's even still half-dreaming. He hasn't really sleepwalked before, but stress can induce a whole lot of things, and Stiles sinks down onto the bed where Erica was sitting, half-expecting the covers to be warm from her residual body-heat.

They are cool. Stiles shakes his head, and lowers his hands, and—

"Grargh!" Stiles clamps both of his hands over his mouth, and side-eyes the door. He _really_ doesn't want to wake his dad. But maybe he should. Because of the whole _dead girl in his room_ thing.

"Did I get to the truth before you? Ha. I’m totally awesome!" Erica says, standing in front of him, hands akimbo and an almost feral curve to the smile on her face. "I'm a ghost." Her perfect brow furrows. "I think."

"You _think_?" Stiles asks, because his brain is short-circuiting. He hasn't slept well for the last few nights, and he's probably been hitting the Adderall too hard too. "I need more sleep. I _definitely_ need more sleep." He runs his hands over his face, and his room is empty again.

Well, if he was worried earlier about his heartbeat and headache pounding in sympathy, he's not now; his brain aches in constant rhythm, and his heart rate's playing an unpredictable pattern. He sinks back down onto the bed to stare at the ceiling, and Erica leans over him.

Falling out of bed is probably not the best reaction, but Stiles is somewhat zen about it; he survived a car crash this week, _died_ for sixteen hours, and helped save not only his single parent but a bunch of his friends' single parents too (man, did _any_ of them have two parents now? Yeah, Scott and Lydia. And look how _that_ works out for them) – long story short, he can survive falling out of bed.

He bangs his knee against his chair, and looks up sourly at Erica as she leans over him to push her face closer to his. "Oh, man," Stiles says. "Are you real or have I finally just cracked?"

Erica shrugs. "Beats me."

Stiles rubs at his pounding head, and pinches himself just to check he's awake; it hurts, but that proves nothing. He catches a glimpse of a dark wire trailing over the edge of his chair and he lunges for it, bringing his cellphone with it like a weird version of fishing. He unlocks the screen with an imprecise swipe, the pad of his thumb ready to text Scott, but there's already a message alert flashing.

 _COME TO DEATONS ASAP,_ Scott's message reads. Stiles spares a wince for the poor apostrophe which was woefully unused for this message. _ALLISON & I R HERE 2. WERE SEEING GHOSTS!!!111 JUST US!!!11 CUD B TREE THING. U???_ And maybe it's the whole English language that Stiles needs to apologize to on Scott's behalf.

"Apparently I'm not alone," Stiles tells Erica, pressing his lips together when they threaten to wobble.

Erica shrugs. "I could have told you that."

Stiles awkwardly gets to his feet, brushing the palms of his hands against his pyjama pants. He considers changing, but Erica's watching him avidly; well, it's not like Stiles has much dignity to lose, anyway. He can go to Deaton's in his pyjamas. It can't be disrespectful to wear something he's slept in to somewhere where you've physically _died_ for over half a day.

Stiles eyeballs her. "Anything you _want_ to tell me?"

"Your ceiling needs a repaint," Erica says, looking up.

Stiles frowns at her. "This is my _life,_ " he mutters under his breath, but then he remembers Erica is dead, and he winces apologetically.

"You know what they say. _Hakuna matata._ " Erica waves a hand as she straightens up on his bed. "I got myself killed. I can't really rub my death in your face."

"And yet here you are," Stiles says, grabbing for his wallet and keys, and wriggling into socks; he doesn't mind going in pyjamas but he's not going without his shoes. "Uh. So. I'm going now?"

"To Deaton's, yeah," Erica says, and she looks at him, her head tilted. "You should ask him about becoming a whatever-he-is."

"Emissary," Stiles says, and then blinks, because he's either educating a _ghost_ or he's losing his mind, and both options just feel like _yet another day in Beacon Hills._ "Deaton's an emissary. I _think._ " He pauses, because _Erica._ It's hard to leave her. Even though she's dead. And in his room. As a ghost. He is not paid enough for this shit. "I guess I could ask."

Erica smiles, and it must happen in a blink, because she's suddenly there, _right_ in his personal space, looming, and close, and Stiles can feel her lack of physical presence in his gut now; Erica's sort of there, in the shimmering _pieces_ of her he remembers, but there's no weight behind it.

Her fingers move up to linger on the side of his forehead, and she creases the saddest smile at him that he's ever seen. "You should ask. He won't notice how right for the role you are." Her smile fades, but the sadness sticks around, and she leans in to whisper in his ear. " _You've already been overlooked._ "

Stiles jerks back, but she's gone again.

He waits, still, listening to the pounding of his heart, and staring at his empty room with wide eyes, but Erica doesn't come back.

Stiles tells himself he isn't disappointed. It's not the first lie he's told himself recently.

#

The clock says it's actually 9am when he finally gets downstairs. Stiles rubs at his aching head as he writes a note saying where he’s going, and then he glances at the calendar on the fridge. His dad was officially working until midnight last night, which means he probably finished around 3am. His next shift is a double; practically all of Sunday, from the crack of dawn right until ridiculous o’clock.

Stiles sighs and scratches the back of his head. Well, at least he'll see his dad at dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow. Not many Sheriffs would take the night shifts, but his dad has always been conscientious about his role in Beacon Hills; he won't make his deputies do anything he isn't willing to do, and since Matt's killing spree, and Tara's death, there haven't quite been enough deputies to comfortably cover all the shifts. It's hard to hire people for any job with such a high mortality rate.

His Jeep isn't outside, which still causes Stiles a flare of panic even though he knows it's in the shop, and he fires off a text to Scott to let him know he's on board the ghost train too and he's on his way, before jogging down the street to the nearest bus stop.

Stiles had been vaguely hoping the fresh air might clear his headache, but it doesn't; by the time the bus arrives, he's faintly bad-tempered with the pain, _and_ he has four more texts from Scott asking where he is.

When the bus arrives, five minutes late because that's how the Beacon Hill buses roll, Stiles boards, hands over his change, and starts texting Scott back as he ambles up towards the back of the bus.

He looks up on instinct, a flash of gold hair in the corner of his vision, to see Erica smiling and waving from the back of the bus. Stiles blanches, and sits down in the nearest seat, hoping he'd contained his sound of startled fear.

"Bad morning, huh?"

Stiles probably jumps again, and he mentally deducts another five points from his plummeting sanity thanks to the constant hypervigilance he's been suffering for the last six months; he looks up sheepishly to see who spoke to him, ready to voice a flippant answer, and he stops abruptly.

The girl smiling tentatively is someone he knows. A friend, actually. Or she used to be. Stiles tries to remember the last time he had a good conversation with Harley Sutherland. He plasters on a neutral smile because oh my _god,_ he's probably the worst friend ever; the last time he can even remember _talking_ to her is when Allison joined the school, and Harley had lingered by their lockers, whining about how Lydia had just scooped her up.

Stiles just hasn't seen her around much, or her schedule and his new werewolves-all-the-bat-time-all-the-bat-place schedule didn't match, and Harley will have seen Lydia and Allison scoop _him_ up in their orbit too, and _damn._ Well, she's still speaking to him. She can't be too mad.

"Uh," Stiles manages. He's not really known for eloquence – Stiles is more a fan of throwing a million words at someone until some of them stick – but being speechless _twice_ in a matter of an hour is humiliating for him. Words tend to be his only defence, after all. "Just a bit tired, I guess?"

Harley's face creases sympathetically. "I heard about your dad."

Of _course_ she has, Stiles thinks. Everyone in Beacon Hills hears about _everything,_ with a special blind eye to all things that go bump in the night. "Yeah," Stiles says, continuing his eloquence streak. "It was, uh, pretty freaky."

"I guess," Harley says. "They also said Allison Argent's dad was in the cave-in too?"

"And Scott's mom," Stiles says.

"Wow," Harley says.

"I _know_ ," Stiles agrees, trying to focus on the sidestreets passing by: his stop is in a few minutes.

"Not just that situation," Harley says, and she turns her face away from his. " _Wow_ in that not only does Allison sweep you up, her dad sweeps up the older generation. Guess I stood no chance, huh?" She looks around for the bus cord, and Stiles is closer; he pulls it for her, and she huffs and turns her face away. The bus trundles to a stop and the doors shudder open. "I thought we were friends," she tells him, heatedly, and storms to the front of the bus, ignoring him after that.

Stiles stares at the back of her head, and then at the way she stomps down the sidewalk when she gets off the bus, and he blinks a few times. Some of the nearby passengers give him a dodgy look, probably annoyed for him getting his teenage melodrama all over the place, and he looks sheepishly around; even the bus driver leans back to glare at him oddly, and Stiles tries to make himself appear smaller in his seat.

" _Rude,_ " one of the nearest passengers says, loudly. Stiles winces at him, and he rolls his eyes and huffs exaggeratedly, not giving Stiles an inch of sympathy for his weird bust-up with Harley. He doesn’t really deserve it. It _is_ his fault that they haven't connected much recently.

"She was pretty harsh," Erica says from beside him as the bus starts moving again.

Stiles can't even work up the energy to agree with her.

#

"Don't even rag on me that I'm late," Stiles says, pushing through the doors and yawning at them obnoxiously loudly. "The Beacon Hills public transit system sucks _ass._ " He pulls up short in the middle of the room. Allison's sitting on the edge of one of Deaton's large steel tables, as Deaton shines his penlight in her eyes, and Scott's leaning against one of the counters. That's not what makes Stiles pause. That honor goes to the fact that Deaton apparently hasn't done anything to his back room in days and the death baths are still there.

"Dude," Stiles says, pointing at the baths, "it's kind of morbid to keep them out, isn't it?"

"They're horse troughs," Scott says, blinking.

Stiles joins him, turning his horrified blinks at the metal death baths. "We died in a _horse trough_?"

"We've got bigger concerns," Deaton says in his never-wavering voice. Stiles may or may not have made a bucket list this year over his probable-impending-any-minute-doom, and ruffling Deaton's calm may or may not be item number six. Above making first line on the lacrosse team, but below keying Derek Hale's car and getting away with it.

Man, item number five on the-list-Stiles-will-never-admit-exists is a lot harder since the Hales left town.

"The ghosts," Stiles agrees. "Although we'll cover _unsuitable places to die_ later." He looks over and Scott and Allison. "Who'd you see?"

"Kate." Allison speaks first because she's brave. Scott toes the ground awkwardly, lowering his gaze, and Stiles gets it, he really does; he and Scott have no secrets. Or they never _used_ to, but since Scott's secret plan to defeat Gerard, Stiles isn't so sure.

Well, it's not like he doesn't have secrets of his own.

"You saw Uncle Harry, huh?" Stiles crosses the floor and grabs Scott's arm in solidarity, looping it through his own.

Scott meets Stiles' eyes just for a second, and the flash of pain is tangible; along with his father being in town, it's going to be a stressful time for Scott. "How about you?" Scott asks.

Stiles' eyes burn for a moment. "Erica," he admits, and it still hurts to say her name, every single time. Scott's eyes water for a moment. Scott might not have ever really committed to being in Derek's pack, but Erica would have joined Scott's pack in a heartbeat, if she could. Stiles remembers Cora saying that losing a member of the pack was like losing a limb, and Stiles can understand that; the phantom pain of the space in Stiles' life where his mom should be is always going to be a constant ache.

"This _sucks,_ " Allison moans, letting Deaton now apparently draw blood from her with a wicked long needle, _holy shit_ , Stiles did not need to see that; thankfully Scott holds onto Stiles as he drops down to the ground. Scott stays down on the tiles with Stiles.

"Thanks, man," Stiles breathes.

"Deaton thinks it's just a manifestation of… y'know," Scott says eloquently, gesturing at their chests.

Stiles doesn't need him to elaborate on their own personal-hearts-of-darkness thing. He _knows._ Scott and he have talked about nothing _but_ the weight of it for the last four days. Both of them feel the responsibility and the tightness, dragging down on them. "I thought you said we weren't going to see anything. Y'know." He motions at his chest.

"This isn't an exact science, Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says. "It's not like I have a manual for this."

"I assumed you did, but you kept it in with your _Being Enigmatic 101_ handbook," Stiles says.

"There's lore on the sacrifices, but not when combined with something like the Nemeton," Deaton says, slowly, like Stiles needs to be treated carefully. Stiles has that effect on people a lot; them treating him like a live explosive which might go off at any time. They probably have a point. "And there's conflicting lore on the creation of a Nematon. Which makes it harder to know what's happening."

"Deaton's best theory is that there was a sacrifice at the beginning of the Nemeton," Scott says. "It wasn't unusual for sites of interest—"

"Like where telluric currents cross," Allison supplies helpfully.

"Yeah, sites like that. It wasn’t unusual for those sites to be used to execute witches," Scott says. "It's possible, maybe, that there’s a disgruntled spirit in the remains of the Nemeton. Trying to use _us_ to get more power."

"To get out," Stiles says, shivering. "Shit."

"But if we're strong and resist the Nemeton's efforts, we can keep the town safe," Allison says. "I think we can do it."

"We _have_ to," Scott says, grimly.

"So…" Stiles says, thinking it through, "the ghosts are… the Nemeton's way of convincing us to help us set a possibly evil spirit free. Great. Does that mean the ghosts are a projection of whoever's living in the tree, or are they real?"

"They're real and they're not real," Deaton says, helpfully.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You're about as useful as the career advisor from eighth grade," he tells Deaton.

Deaton ignores him. Most people do. _You've already been overlooked,_ Erica's voice says in Stiles' head, and he shivers.

"Dude, are you seeing Erica now?" Scott hisses, sounding a little excited. Stiles shakes his head.

"You probably won't, at least not for long," Deaton says. "There are certain protection rituals that you can embed into structures, if you're involved enough in their creation."

"Let me guess," Stiles says. "You were involved in the Animal Clinic's creation."

Deaton's voice is soft. "My fiancée at the time designed it." He doesn't elaborate on the fiancée comment. Stiles and Scott exchange a glance and silently appreciate it; while they want the adults in their life to be happy, no one wants to hear about _details_ about people their parent's age _dating_.

"What do you mean that they're real and not real?" Allison queries. "Schrodinger's ghost?"

Stiles snickers at the joke, and even Deaton's eternal placid expression quirks up at one side. Scott looks a little lost, and Stiles pats his friend's arm reassuringly. "We're not getting to that in the science reading until later in the semester, buddy. Don't sweat it."

"Then how do _you_ all know it?" Scott asks, scowling.

"Shitty sci-fi re-runs at two in the morning," Stiles offers.

"I've been to eleven different schools in six years," Allison says. "Curriculums differ worldwide."

"Me, doctor," Deaton says, exaggeratedly slow, pointing at his white coat with an indulgent smile.

Stiles' head hurts too much for him to appreciate the wonder that is Alan Deaton voluntarily making a joke. He really needs to try and get some proper _sleep_ some night soon.

Scott lets Deaton take some blood from him too (and Allison lets Stiles bury his head in her shoulder and she sings loudly to cover up "the sound" of the needle. Only singing is, yeah, not something Allison should be encouraged to do _ever again_.) Stiles flat-out refuses to have his blood taken and Deaton says he'll look into it all, and there's a terrible minute while they all stand and look silently at each other, furtively glancing at the baths and drowning in the awkwardness of what they should do now.

Scott tentatively voices a need to return books to the library, and Allison latches onto that. Scott looks at Stiles hesitantly, but Stiles looks across at Deaton, Erica's words still echoing in his aching head.

"Nah, man, I kinda want to—" Stiles gestures his head in Deaton's direction. Deaton sighs a little under his breath at it. "You two go on ahead."

Scott nods, and he and Allison hurry out of there, a clear foot of space between them when there used to be no space at all. It's a bittersweet visual reminder of how much everything can change, and then change again, in the blink of an eye.

Stiles waits until the front door of the Animal Clinic closes, the distinctive chime echoing flatly through the building. He opens his mouth to speak.

Deaton doesn't turn around, placidly stacking flea medication into a closet. "I already know what you're going to ask, Stiles, and I don't think you fully know what you're getting into."

Stiles drums his fingers against one of the stainless steel tables, mostly because Scott likes to bitch at him about how difficult it is to clean fingerprints from them. "Will you be able to teach me the creepy cryptic melodramatic stuff, or is that just personal style?"

Deaton's shoulders shake, just a little; Stiles' sarcasm wins most people over eventually. He's kinda persistent like that. "You know what some of the downsides are," Deaton says, still slow and measured, so maybe Stiles hasn't completely won him over yet. "You'll be—"

"Overlooked," Stiles finishes, and Deaton turns to him with a surprised look. Stiles tilts his chin, challengingly. "I'm kinda counting on it, actually."

Deaton looks at him, his face schooling into something more emotionless. "I am willing to teach you," he says, moving around the baths to face Stiles properly. "But you must understand the commitment. The path. The _price_."

"I'm committed," Stiles says, stubbornly. "I—" He glances out of the window. For a moment, he thinks he can see a flash of Erica's hair in the distance, and his mouth dries. He looks back at Deaton determinedly. "I'm tired of being useless. I want to help. Everyone else has skills and all I can do is surf the internet and occasionally wield sports' equipment in a semi-threatening manner."

"This isn't a path to power." Deaton paces closer, his movements smooth. "You won't be recognized for what you do. If you're after validation—"

"I'll get all the validation I need knowing I'm doing my best to help my friends," Stiles says. He glares Deaton down, thinking if he can glare down an Alpha werewolf likely to punch him in the face for the words snapping out of his mouth, then he can survive _Deaton._ Unfortunately the placid gaze is too assessing, and Stiles breaks first, looking down for a moment before looking back up with renewed fire. "I just… It's knowledge that's the real power, right? No one else seems to get that. They think power is magic, and claws, and bullets, but… It's words and plans that are really what we need. And everyone's too bugged out about sharpening their weapons to do what needs to be done."

"And what do you think needs to be done, Stiles?"

Stiles inhales and exhales slowly, evenly. "I need to know more. You need to teach me. I need to know what you know, so that if one of us goes down, the pack still survives."

Deaton's placid expression curves into a smile. "My office. Sundays, Mondays and Thursdays, between five and seven. We start Monday."

"But today's Saturday," Stiles says, frowning. "Why not start tomorrow?"

"You'll be too busy reading," Deaton smirks.

#

The bus ride home is less eventful, no resentful ex-friends, no ghosts, but it's still noon by the time Stiles gets home with his armful of ridiculously heavy textbooks. Apparently Deaton's never heard of e-books or scanners. He thinks mournfully of Gerard Argent's digitized beastiary, and then tangentially of Creepy Uncle Peter™'s MacBook. Ugh, how come the bad guys get all the good technology? And why the hell didn't Stiles steal a copy of that before Allison's tablet got busted and they lost it?

Stiles sighs, stacks up the books on the dining room table, and fixes himself and his dad some sandwiches, dry-swallowing a dose of Adderall as he rips up some lettuce to go in the bread. It looks like he's going to need some serious concentration for the next few months, and that's just in regard to his Emissary training. He doesn't even want to think about the workload the school doled out last week. Apparently their response to missing and dead teachers is to overwhelm and dismay their students with extra worksheets and essays

He's just settling into a book entitled _Clairvoyance and Occult Powers,_ by Swami Panchadasi, and reading about the first lesson (Astral Senses) when his dad comes into the room.

Stiles opens his mouth to mutter something about the ghosts, because they have a new no-lie pact going on, but the words die in his mouth when he notices his dad is in uniform. "Really?" Stiles says, instead, frowning at the glint of his new un-Darach-smashed sheriff's badge.

His dad winces. "Sorry, kiddo. But Maria called in sick. They're short-handed."

Stiles rolls his eye. "Please, what kind of crimes even go down a _Saturday_? Isn't everybody just sleeping off Friday night?"

His dad freezes for a moment, clearly struggling with whether he should say something or not. A tension line pulses in his forehead and his jaw tightens. "There's been a body," he says, in the monotone, fatigued way he says everything he doesn't want to say. _Maybe I just don’t want to feel any worse than I already do by having to yell at my son._ "Down on the road that skirts around the preserve, between the hospital and the library."

Stiles fingers tighten on the cover of the book. He knows that road. He's walked it himself. It's the long path from the library to the hospital; he and Scott used to use it when they had to meet his mom, and wanted to spend more time together, rather than cutting through the Preserve. Stiles used it a lot more later, when he was trying to get a peek at the burned-down house that his dad had obsessed over six years ago; Stiles can only think of his Hale house interest with a little bit of shame now."Is it—"

His dad's shoulders are tense. "Maybe. Dispatch said… it's possibly a—There was a weird mark on the forehead, but the throat was definitely clawed—" He grimaces. "I don't—"

Stiles pushes his mouth into a line, because he's not sure what he might do if he doesn't try and control himself. Scream, maybe. Cry like a baby. Or maybe silence is what would come out of his open mouth, and that's just as bad as anything. "Maybe Deaton could help," Stiles finally offers. "He, uh. Gave me some extra-curricular reading to do." He gestures with the book in his hands to the pile on the table.

His dad looks down, frowning heavily at some of the titles: _Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs, The 6th and 7th Book of Moses, Nickell's Botanical Ready Reference, Aldaraia or the Book of Soyga._ Stiles can tell when his dad gets to the weirder titles. _The Discoverie of Witchcraft. The Long Hidden Vade-Mecum._ "I suppose forewarned is forearmed," Dad manages, eventually, sounding entirely unhappy with his own words.

Stiles tries not to wince too much. It's one thing to know about the supernatural. It's another to be constantly reminded that it's real, and that his own son regularly throws himself into said firing line.

"That was my pitch to Deaton," Stiles says. "I'd rather—I'd rather _know_ , y'know?" And maybe he looks up beseechingly, for validation. For his dad to agree. To get that implicit _yes, it's better that I know about the things that go grrr, argh in Beacon Hills_.

His dad just looks away.

"You can't always get what you want," a female voice says from behind him. Stiles tenses, automatically.

"What are your plans for today?" Dad asks, not responding to the voice, or looking behind Stiles.

 _Avoiding ghosts,_ Stiles thinks. "Reading, I guess," Stiles says. "And homework. Lots of homework."

"So reading, a cursory glance at your homework, and then marathon watching something on Netflix," Dad surmises.

Stiles winces for his dad's sake. Netflix hadn't even crossed his mind. He blames his headache for making his brain forget that important and meaning-of-life-worthy resource. "You know me too well," he says, instead.

His dad looks a little happier at that, but he still struggles with his next words. "Be careful," is what he settles on.

"Always am," Stiles says. His dad gives him a meaningful glare. "Nearly always," Stiles amends. "Practically nearly always. Like seventy per cent of the time nearly."

"Up that batting average and maybe we'll talk about getting that upgrade to your laptop RAM that you were whining about all summer," Dad says, grabbing his jacket. He stares at Stiles, like he's trying to memorize his face or something.

Stiles' stomach jumbles unhappily. "Have fun at work."

"Yeah," Dad says, with a grimace, scooping up his keys for the cruiser and reluctantly walking out through the door. Stiles sinks against the table, and _hates_ that he's relieved to see his dad go. He figured his dad knowing the truth might fix their relationship, but it's just as tense as it has been during all the lying. His dad's worry just has a specific direction to fire in now.

"Good looking guy, your dad," the voice says, and Stiles sighs.

"I don't need to hear you lust after my dad, Erica," he says, and turns around to admonish her, glad his dad isn't around to see him speak to someone no one else can see.

Then he freezes. The woman smiling at him, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest, is definitely not Erica Reyes.

It takes Stiles a few moments to place her face, because he never really interacted with Kate Argent when she was still alive.

Kate smiles wide. "I'm not Erica," she says, and uncrosses her room. Her hips sway as she walks, practised and precise. "But I could be Erica for you if that's what floats your boat." She sways into Stiles' personal space, and even though she's _not there,_ he can almost feel her presence. He shivers as she lifts her hand to trace a finger down his cheek; he can't feel it, but his body responds to it regardless, a chill racing down his spine. "I could be anyone you want me to be _,_ baby."

"You're not real _,_ " Stiles tells her, and forces himself to deliberately turn in his seat, focussing on the words in front of him as best as he can. _The Western student, on the other hand, is accustomed to maintaining the skeptical attitude of mind—the scientific attitude of doubt and demand for proof._

"Isn't that what your boss said, though? We're real _and_ not real?"

Stiles can't help the quirked look to the side he throws automatically in her voice's direction, and he regrets it; she's straddling one of the chairs now, her throat tipped back, revealing Peter's deep, jagged claw marks across her pale skin for a few seconds until they disappear. Stiles swallows down the mouthful of bile, and rubs his forehead. "You're not real," Stiles repeats, firmly, eyes tracking down the page even though he's not taking any of the words in. "You're dead and I'm glad about it. We all threw a fucking party."

Kate's laugh is bright and brilliant. "Sounds like my kind of party," she says, practically purring the words out. "It's the kind of party Derek used to like the best." She moves closer so Stiles can't avoid seeing her over the top of his book, and one of her non-existent fingers trails up his forearm. "I do like the young ones. You scream so prettily."

Stiles drops the book to clench his hands into fists, but he's glaring angrily into air. Kate's gone. He looks around just to be sure, but he's alone again.

He tries to keep reading, but Kate's brief visit has upset him too much. His heart – with its streak of invisible darkness – is beating a little too fast, and he constantly expects to see another ghost looming at him, and even his sandwich – going a little dry now – isn't enough to calm or distract him.

Well, if he's not being productive on the books, maybe his homework will be a little more yielding. Stiles is only halfway up the stairs when he realizes he's preferring to do _homework_ over some other task. Seriously. His _life._

He heads to his desk, drops down noisily in his chair which has never been as comfortable since Scott clawed the back; it's personally blaming him for letting its purity be wrecked by a hormonal teenage werewolf, probably. Stiles likes to make Scott take it when they're researching something, because the sore shoulders that result from too much sitting in that chair is totally Scott's fault.

Then again, Scott probably heals from muscle aches too. Freaking werewolves. Stiles opens up his laptop and hums under his breath as he loads up the school website to download this weekend's math assignments; whoever invented the Blackboard system, or whoever decided Beacon Hills High needed it, well both of them, they're total morons.

Stiles tries to spin on his chair while the Beacon Hills Blackboard takes its own sweet time to load, but his chair creaks mutinously. Scott is the worst thing to happen to most of Stiles' bedroom furniture, to be honest. His closet still doesn't open properly since that game of keepaway in ninth grade; Stiles does find some comfort and solace in the Scott's-head-shape dent in the right-hand door of it, so at least there's _that_. Werewolves do at least have some pros to go with their cons.

He gets into the math section of the website, clicks on the PDF that's apparently their homework for the weekend, and while _that_ downloads he checks his room out for ghosts again, warily squinting, and mentally whining that he doesn't actually have anyone he can call to sort it out for him. The ghostbusters would be _excellent_ help right about now, but they’re sadly fictional. Ugh, stupid 80s movies, depicting unrealistically easy solutions for wacky, dangerous situations.

Stiles is distracted for a moment by thoughts of what an 80s movie of his life would look like, but he realizes he'd probably be the comic relief with Scott as the hero. Man, that's depressing. He turns back to his laptop, but the download is still only at 45%, so he pulls out his phone to play Candy Crush (Stiles is pretty sure that the fake-sacrifice ritual can't have stolen his soul, because it's already owned by King) and that’s when sees the notification:

4 NEW MESSAGES FROM **HALES**.

Huh. He programmed in the number Cora gave them under the surname, because Cora's message said it would be the number for both her _and_ Derek. Stiles wonders which of them actually texted. Probably Cora. Stiles has a mental image of Derek hunching over a small cellphone, his ridiculously big fingers pawing indelicately at the screen. He opens the message.

 _HI THIS IS DEREK HALE_ , the opening line of the message reads, and Stiles sighs at the fact that he can't even be right about one thing. Oh well. The message is all in capslock, which just cements Stiles' mental image about Derek's ineptitude around technology, and reads, _SORRY TO BOTHER YOU_.

 _What?_ Stiles almost laughs out loud. Oh my god. Derek Hale. _Being polite._ It probably _is_ Cora messaging him. Derek will probably sulk for weeks when he finds out she's texted them all with _politeness_.

Stiles thumbs down to read the rest of the message. _[1/3] HAVE ANY OF YOU THOUGHT ABOUT REMOVING EVIDENCE RE: WEREWOLVES/DRUIDS FROM JB'S APARTMENT? WE'RE_ – ooh, Stiles can at least mock Scott that if _Derek Hale_ can manage to use an apostrophe in texts, _so can he_ – _[2/3] TOO FAR AWAY BUT IF YOU HAVE THE CHANCE TO CHECK OVER HER APARTMENT FOR ANYTHING UNNATURAL BEFORE THE COPS OFFICIALLY REALIZE SHE'S_ – is Derek texting him a freaking novel or something? – _[3/3] MISSING AND CLOSE IT OFF FOR GOOD, NOW MIGHT BE THE TIME._

Stiles stares at his phone, checks the time the message was sent, and scrolls quickly to his call log – no missed call from Scott, even though the message was sent ten minutes ago. His phone chimes again. _PS LET ME KNOW IF YOU FIND ANYTHING INTERESTING. PPS CORA SAYS HI_.

Maybe Scott's not near his phone. Stiles scrolls to his contacts and hits the green button even though it's likely Scott hasn't paid any attention to his phone since texting Stiles earlier about the ghosts.

Unnatural. Ah, code for werewolves. Yeah, it makes sense that Derek Hale fits in the unnatural category as well as the supernatural one.

Scott picks up after three rings. "Hey, buddy, what's up?"

"More ghosts," Stiles says, "and that _text_."

"I didn't butt text you again, did I?"

"Nooo," Stiles says, slowly. "The text we all just got? From Derek?"

"Huh," Scott says. "Give me a sec." There's rustling as Scott checks his phone for messaging. "I've got nothing. Neither does Isaac."

"Seriously? Maybe it hasn't come through yet. I'll forward it to you." He quickly fumbles to his menu and forwards the first message to Isaac. He can hear the echoing chime of Isaac's phone picking it up.

"Yeah, got it," Scott says, and there's a muffled burst of speaking. "Isaac, get Allison – her dad might have contacts. We need to find out where Ms. Blake's apartment is."

"You're really getting into the swing of being the Alpha," Stiles compliments.

Scott's voice goes suddenly bashful. "You think so?"

"I know so. A thousand leagues above you-know-who."

"I dunno. Voldemort kinda Alpha'd the shit out of the deatheaters."

"You know that’s not who I meant. And I'm going to ignore the fact that you're using You-Know-Who as Alpha-inspiration," Stiles says, "and wait for my orders."

"I'm not going to _order you around_ ," Scott says, like the idea is appalling.

"Hmm," Victoria Argent says, sitting on the edge of Stiles' desk. "Sounds like your little Alpha doesn't think you're pack."

" _Holy fucking shit,_ " Stiles yells, unfortunately right into the receiver.

"My ears hurt now," Scott whines; Stiles doesn't quite know how he manages to keep a hold of his phone. He glares at the ghost of Victoria, but she just glares back, her freakishly long eyelashes fanning out judgmentally at him.

"Yeah," Stiles says, coherently, "my _everything_ hurts."

"I could probably still arrange for that to happen," Victoria tells him, leaning closer. Her face is extraordinarily symmetrical. He noticed that the _first_ time he met her, on the Argent doorstep, where Stiles babbled like speaking was about to go out of fashion. Or maybe post-befriending-Scott, _everyone_ seems extraordinarily facially symmetrical. "I might be a ghost, or a figment of your imagination, but I'm pretty sure the phrase _scared to death_ isn't always a metaphor."

"Are you all right?" Scott is babbling down the phone. "Do you need me to come and get you? Stiles. _Stiles._ Are you bleeding? What happened? Stiles, seriously—"

"Metaphor," Stiles blurts out, eyeballing Victoria resentfully. "Um. Kind of a ghost situation happening here. She… looks like she wants to circumcise me."

"That's Erica's default expression," Scott says.

"It's not—" Stiles starts, meaning to tell him it's not Erica, but instead a whimper kind of slips out instead, which just makes Victoria smile. Which pisses Stiles off, and he swipes a hand at her, and it just goes _through_ her. "Dude, my hand's in a ghost right now."

"I've come to terms with our friendship involving you telling me where your hand is more times than is socially acceptable," Scott says, sadly. "Um. Can we—Can not talking about them for now be a thing?" he adds, in a more uncertain tone. "It's just—"

Stiles' stomach jolts in sympathy, because he's just getting frightened out of his wits. Scott saw _Harold McCall_ this morning. He's a shitty friend sometimes. "Yeah," he says, vindictively wiggling his hand in what should be Victoria Argent's stomach, and she just glares at him, deadpan and unimpressed. "Of course."

"Isaac's got an address already," Scott says, and there's more muttering, and it's time like this that Stiles regrets turning down Peter’s offer of the bite. Which makes Stiles sad again, because there's apparently a part of his brain that doesn't think Peter's werewolf saliva in his bloodstream is 100% wrong. "Is there a bus that runs near the Grove Apartments, or do you need me to order one of the pack to give you a lift?"

"You're enjoying your new power way too much, Scotty boy," Stiles tells him. "And yeah, I can get there."

"Meet us outside," Scott instructs, and hangs up without saying goodbye.

Stiles rolls his eyes, and glances down at his phone. He deliberates for a moment, because he's pretty sure without Cora there bitching at him, Derek's text message would not have been so kind, but one person's – or werewolf's – inability to be polite shouldn't have any impact on his own behavior.

"You're not equipped for the life you're trying to live," Victoria tells him.

"Fuck you and the astral horse you rode in on," Stiles says, because he can't be polite by text _and_ polite to a ghost at the same time.

"Words are no weapon against the things you'll have to face to live to your next birthday," Victoria says. Stiles swipes at her head, but her nose poking through his palm freaks him out too much.

 _Thanks for the head's up,_ he texts Derek. _We're on our way now._

He pauses for a moment, and then adds, _PS, We hadn't thought of it. Thanks._

 _THE KEY'S ON TOP OF THE DOOR,_ is the only text Stiles gets back, but he thinks about that and how he would feel, to have someone worm their way into his life only to trick him, and it doesn't feel good.

Nothing feels good right now. Stiles sighs and gets to his feet. He probably should put proper pants on this time.

"Do you mind?" Stiles asks Victoria, pointing his jeans at her accusingly.

She smiles and leans back on her hands, crossing her legs. "Not at all."

Stiles narrows his eyes accusingly. "Is _every_ Argent female insane in the head?" Wait, that's a little unkind to Allison. Then again, she did stab Isaac once twenty times.

Victoria _moves,_ in a blink-and-he-misses-it kind of way, until her face looms close enough to swamp his vision. "A little hypocritical, Mr. Stilinski," she says, her voice rough. "Out of the two of us, who's the one seeing dead people?"

Stiles opens his mouth to answer, because redundant questions are his _favorite,_ but Victoria speaks again before he can.

"Out of the two of us, _who's the one who took darkness into their heart_?"

"At least I didn't try to kill a boy just because I didn't approve of him dating my daughter," Stiles flings back.

"No," Victoria says, "but at least I wasn't responsible for the death of my _own mother._ "

Stiles goes cold. He can hear his heart, his dark heart, thumping in his ears. He can feel the darkness around it, pulsing like a fresh scar in time with his shallow, nervous breathing. Even though it's still early afternoon, his room feels colder, darker, and his ears ring with a familiar headiness – guilt and denial. Victoria smiles evenly at him.

"I didn't." He brings a hand up to his mouth, because he didn't mean to say that.

This is ridiculous. He's letting a ghost get the better of him.

 _Weak, Stilinski,_ he mentally instructs himself. _Very weak. You need to put your goddamned pants on and walk out of that door and help your_ friends _._

Victoria steps backwards, leaning against his desk, her eyes coolly on him as he clumsily puts his pants on and ties his sneakers, his eyes warily returning the stare. Their eyes lock for a moment more, but Stiles resolutely turns out of the door and she doesn't follow him.

He wants to think he's won, but the last memory he has of his mom is painted behind his eyelids, in a pinpoint sharp image of hospital white and the distinctive dull noise as her heart flatlined.

It doesn't feel like victory.

 

 

****


	2. Chapter 2

 

**Chapter Two**

_“He struggled with himself, too. I saw it — I heard it. I saw the inconceivable mystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear, yet struggling blindly with itself.”_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

Stiles is surprised when the bus stops conveniently in front of the right apartment block while he’s still ranting under his breath about ghosts. At least he didn't actually get any spectral guests riding with him this time. He gets an odd glance from one of the women on the bus as he disembarks, meaning he's probably ranting too loudly, so he cans it. After all, Scott's superhearing is only improving as the months of his lycanthropy add up, and he’s trying to keep his own ghost shit to himself.

Isaac's waiting for him on the corner. "I'm on lookout," he says as he sees Stiles approach.

“Not a _hello,_ Stiles, how are _you_ , Stiles?” Stiles stares at Isaac in mock affrontation.

“Hello, Stiles,” Isaac says, in a monotone. “No one cares, Stiles. I’m on _lookout._ ”

"Good for you," Stiles tells Isaac, because he's kind of a jerk too sometimes. Thankfully he's a _funny_ jerk, and Isaac just grins.

"Apartment 504," Isaac says, jerking his head in the direction of the main door. "There's no security."

"Story of my life," Stiles says, and then he eyeballs Isaac. "Nice scarf."

"Thanks," Isaac says, smugly. Stiles turns away and smothers a shit-eating smile. Werewolves might have super-everything, but sarcasm-detection isn't in their repertoire.

When he gets to the fifth floor and turns in the right direction, he finds Allison kneeling at the door trying to pick the lock, Scott looking agitated and flexing his fist like he's an inch from volunteering to punch the door down, and Lydia shooting evil glances at – oh, Peter. _Peter._ "What's he doing here?" Stiles demands.

"That's what _I_ said," Lydia says.

"I wasn't busy," Peter says, in that placid tone of his that crawls up Stiles' spine worse than _freaking ghosts._

Stiles glares at Scott. "Did you invite him? Did you invite _Lydia_? I need to know. Because otherwise I'm mentally picturing Peter following you because he's a grade A creeper, and Lydia following _him_ because her banshee powers are activating in anticipation of his second death."

"I like your mental image," Lydia says, flickering her gaze in Stiles' direction appreciatively. He's tired, and has a headache, and Lydia has a sort-of boyfriend. It still doesn't stop him from preening a little bit.

"Please," Peter huffs."The people in this group who've died and come back to life are the _majority_ now, by my reckoning."

Allison shifts her weight uncomfortably. Even Scott looks guilty, not just at Peter's words, and Stiles' ego-swell at Lydia's attention droops.

"I can’t believe you invited Peter,” Stiles says, frowning at Scott. “He’s at the top of my suspect list. You’ve betrayed everything I stand for.”

“Suspect— What have I even _done_?” Peter demands. He pulls a face at Allison’s slack expression of disbelief. “I mean _recently._ ”

“Existed,” Stiles says, sniffing loudly. Lydia claps her hands together, delighted at the burn.

“I thought he might know something,” Scott says, sheepishly. “The more the merrier? Besides… He’s kinda pack?”

Peter preens this time.

“Isn't he technically still Hale pack?" Stiles asks, eyes flickering disdainfully over Peter's very punch-able face. “It’s not your fault the Hale Alpha gave his power away. You shouldn’t be stuck with him, Scott, just because no one else wants him.”

“Hey,” Peter says, but without much heat; he’s aware of the pack’s feelings towards him.

“Well—” Scott starts.

“Just face it, Scotty. You’re a terrible, betraying… betrayer," Stiles declares, prodding a finger at Scott's stupidly solid chest. He rubs his finger and glowers at Scott. His best friend _does_ manage to look genuinely sorry about it. "I can't even stay mad at you, McCall. What's the sitch?"

"We're trying to get in," Scott says, frowning. "Mom's trying to find out if dad was involved with investigating the Darach murders.” He looks at Stiles sheepishly. “And then she made the mistake of showing him my school report from last year."

Stiles rubs Scott's shoulder companionably. "Sorry, dude," he says. "Allison. How's it going? Gotta says, it's looking like a good thing that I'm here."

"Why – did you attend Lockpicking 101 any time recently?" Allison snarls, squinting as she adjusts the tools in her hands. She only snarls like that when she's frustrated that she can't do something. "Because ten minutes ago was a better time to tell us."

"I did not," Stiles says, and leans over her to reach up to the doorframe. "But I am a sheriff's kid." He pulls down the key and smirks melodramatically.

The row of shocked, impressed faces that turn to him makes Stiles think that maybe the reason Scott didn't receive Derek's text was that Derek sent it _only to him._ The weirdness of that thought makes him hand over the key quickly to Allison, where Stiles of a year ago would have at least broken out a Snoopy Dance to celebrate his illicitly won moment of heroics. Peter just smirks at Stiles knowingly, pushing past him to get into the apartment first, and Scott hands out plastic gloves that he’s liberated from Deaton. What Deaton even _needs_ elbow gloves for is a highly salacious topic at the best of times for Stiles; nothing passes his door bigger than a St. Bernard. What could Deaton even plan to have his fist _in_ to need gloves that long? There’s something shady going on there, for sure. Still, disrupting Deaton’s nefarious fisting plans is good thinking in this case; leaving fingerprints would be _bad._

"Keep an eye on the zombie wolf," Lydia hisses to them all, and she stomps into the apartment, past where Peter stands with his chin tilted high.

"Where are the twins?" Stiles asks Scott as they step through into Jennifer Blake's apartment. It doesn't have the stale, musky scent of an abandoned apartment that Stiles was expecting, but then again, she only went _'missing_ ' four days ago now. It feels like a lifetime.

It's a nice apartment – smallish, but then again, Beacon Hills High probably pays their teachers in misery and quarters. It explains so much about poor deceased Adrian Harris. Stiles tries to mentally run down a list of the places serial killers were most likely to hide their secret stash of evil plans and evidence, but he's distracted by his own thoughts. God, Harris was such an asshole. Stiles is allowed to think ill of the dead if he's being haunted by some of them, right? Adrian Harris might be dead, but death doesn't erase a history of being a human dickweed.

Stiles jerks his thoughts away from douchey chemistry teachers. He asked a question, and he should be focussing on the answer.

"Aiden and Ethan are ready to run traffic interference if we need it," Scott says. "They're kinda following your dad."

Stiles pauses on his way to rifle through the sofa cushions, because even evil Darachs can't be immune to the sucking ability of sofas to steal small things from you, and he squints. "Why would you—"

"Oh. Not so much _him_ as where he's going," Scott says.

"My dad got a tip-off," Allison calls from where she's looking through the contents of an old-style roll-top desk. "There's been a body found in the woods. Matching the description of Ms. Blake. Now it might not be her, but…"

"But?"

"She was found spread-eagled on top of what remains of the Nemeton trunk," Scott says, with a wince.

"And if they find out it is her—" Stiles winces. "We really don't have long."

"Isaac's on lookout," Allison says. "He's gonna sing something appropriate to let us know who's coming our way, apparently."

"How are we—" Stiles trails off midway through his sentence when Scott points at his ears. Bah. Werewolf superhearing. It's totally overrated.

"And like I said, I've got the twins ready to run interference, so we'll have time to get away," Scott says, joining Stiles in peering through the cushions. He comes up with a ten dollar bill on first look, and waves it at Stiles, looking hopeful. Stiles points at the sofa, because it’s one thing to steal stuff from a dead woman, it’s another thing entirely to steal _money_. Scott sighs and returns the money. "The plan is that if they block off Avalon Parkway and Grove Avenue, anyone coming will be forced to go the long way, around the old ambulance station."

"You just want them to crash so you're the only one with a bike," Stiles says, pushing down the surge of selfish jealousy that Scott's the man with the plans now. "I'm onto your wily ways."

"You _taught_ me all the wily ways I know," Scott moans. "I was an innocent child before I met you."

Even Allison snorts at that one.

"If I can interrupt the cutest bromance that the West Coast has ever seen," Lydia calls, impatiently, "I'm oddly entranced by this closet in her bedroom and that's probably a big freaking clue."

"That's not a clue," Stiles insists, brushing past Scott in his haste to move towards Lydia. Scott just huffs a semi-inhale at being knocked into. "This apartment has an open plan sitting room, a bathroom and a bedroom; it's not like there's anywhere _but_ the closet to hide things in."

"I found some cooking herbs in the cabinet over the microwave," Peter offers.

"No one cares," Allison tells him. Stiles hides his smirk in his hand for a moment.

"Well?" Lydia demands, glaring at Stiles.

Stiles frowns at the magnolia-painted closet, and then at Lydia. "Well, what?"

"I'm not opening it," Lydia says, sniffing like he should have thought of it first. "When I'm drawn to things it's usually because of _dead bodies_. I'm not opening it and having a dead body fall on me."

“Oh, and _I_ should open it so a dead body can fall on me?” Stiles gives her a look which is supposed to say _are you kidding me_. This expression withers under her more powerful glare, and he turns around and opens the closet.

And comes face-to-face with _his own face._

"What the _hell._ " Stiles shuts his mouth after exhaling the curse, because this closet is some sort of classic stalker closet, with fragments of texts and photographs stuck to the back. Three of the four largest photographs were of him. He definitely does not remember anyone taking photos of him in public that don't involve a lacrosse game _ever_. "Uh—" He looks back at the others, wild-eyed, and then back at the inside of the closet. "I think this is freakier than the whole ghosts thing."

" _What_ ghost thing?" Lydia demands. Stiles winces, guiltily.

"Later," he promises. She narrows his eyes at him.

"Just for that we should leave your face here," she says, sniffing noisily, but she does lean over and start to tug down the papers. It would kind of suck for Stiles' face to be all over a crime scene.

Scott's phone starts trilling. "Hey mom—" He goes silent, and Peter says _shit_ under his breath in a tone which makes Stiles turn and run to the bed. Yanking off a couple of pillowcases, he throws one to Lydia.

"I'm not doing laundry for the dead woman who tried to _kill me,_ " Lydia hisses. Stiles rolls his eyes, and uses the pillowcase as a bag, starting to grab at the stuff in the closet willy-nilly.

From Scott's expression, it has to be bad news. "Turn the place over," Stiles says to Allison. "We need to make it look like a robbery."

Allison nods. "Got it."

"How long have we got?" Stiles asks, slotting Jennifer's books into the bottom of another pillowcase so he doesn't crush the papers he's throwing in on top. There's a large sounding crash from the sitting room.

"I've always wanted to smash a TV," Allison calls. "I feel kind of rockstar right now."

"Dad just left mom," Scott says, coming off the phone. "He's got a team of his buddies in town, apparently, and they're headed straight here."

"Shouldn't this be _my_ dad's jurisdiction?" Stiles asks, yanking the closet's chest of drawers open. There's a lot of flimsy underwear in there. Stiles winces, and starts throwing it out like silk confetti, because maybe there was still a shred of humanity in Ms. Blake before she died and she hid stuff in her underwear drawer like regular people. He finds a knife, but no porn.

"Oh my god," Lydia yells over Stiles' shoulder. "Do _not_ claw the microwave, asshole. We're supposed to be _removing_ any evidence of werewolves."

"Spoilsport," Peter whines. "You cause someone a _tiny_ amount of psychological and physical damage and suddenly you're the lowest of the low."

"You _tried to eat me to death,_ " Lydia points out. "Let's not even point out that _that_ was the least-traumatic on the list of things you've done to me."

"Not pointing it out points it out," Peter says, haphazardly pulling open drawers in the kitchen. "Just FYI."

"Apparently the FBI have priority in her case. Something about a trail of bodies across several states," Scott says, mouth wrinkling as he texts on his phone, presumably keeping Isaac and the twins in the loop. "We need to get a move on. He already thinks we're in some sort of _gang_. If he finds us all at a crime scene…"

"Jackpot," Allison calls. "I found a laptop in her bookcase." She hurries into the room. "Have you got everything from in here?"

Stiles passes her one of the pillowcases to hold. "We need to turn the bed over," he says, and he, Lydia, Scott and Allison move automatically to all four corners of the bed, tipping it up. Stiles smothers a smile. He likes how their team works.

"Scott still insinuated you weren't pack, though," Erica says, standing on top of the bed and looking down at Stiles, almost sadly. "You shouldn't forget that."

"Shut _up,_ " Stiles tells her.

"No one said anything," Lydia says, confused.

"It looks so weird from the other side," Allison says, obviously thinking about how crazy she'll have looked talking to her ghosts.

"On three," Stiles grits out. "One, two—"

Scott, because he's an asshole, lifts up the bed on "two." _Werewolves._ It's starting to become a curse word. Stiles rolls his eyes, but drops down to his knees, looking under the bed.

"There's a book under here," Lydia says, reaching her hand under and grabbing it before Scott lowers the bed.

"All right," Allison says. "Let's move it."

"It's not that simple," Peter says. "Unless Isaac has a hidden fondness for butchering _Fuck Tha Police_."

"Shit," Scott breathes, and his phone beeps as if to chastise him for swearing. He glances at the screen. "Message from the twins. The FBI had three cars. They couldn't waylay all three." He winces. "Isaac's really… an interesting rapper."

Stiles snaps his fingers in front of Scott before hauling one of the pillowcases over his shoulder. "Concentrate. How do we get out of here?"

"There's only one elevator," Scott says. "We checked on the way up. There's stairs at the back, but—" He squints. "Dad's here already. I can't hear whether he's coming up the elevator or the stairs." He winces, and turns to Allison. "What do we do?"

"What do _we_ do?" Allison says, hefting two of the pillowcases over one shoulder like they weigh nothing, even though Stiles knows both of them are half-filled with ridiculously heavy books. "You're the Alpha, Scott."

"I'm not Derek," Scott says. "I'm a democracy."

"There's only one car," Erica says, leaning her head on Scott's shoulder. Stiles blanches. Yeah, he'd been trying his best to forget she was there. And that his life included ghosts now among the werewolves. "Fire escape?"

"Fire escape," Stiles blurts, like it's his idea.

"Won't they see us climbing down the building?" Allison asks, eyes tracking between them all worriedly.

"There's only one car, and if Isaac's seen it, it's parked around the front," Stiles says. Erica looks smug, waves, points at the largest window in the sitting room and disappears. Stiles shakes himself. "The twins will have delayed the other two cars enough. C'mon."

They run to the window; there's an arm lever for the window that's thankfully unlocked. Jennifer probably liked having her escape options open, and while most single women living on their own in a town with a higher-than-usual annual death count might lock anything and everything that could be used to get into their apartment, Stiles thinks Jennifer's magic probably gave her the edge when it came to personal security.

Well, against most things. She wasn't invincible.

Stiles shivers. If Jennifer's definitely dead (since learning Gerard survived he's been mostly dubious about everyone's death), maybe she'll join his parade of ghosts. Won't that be a freaking delight fest.

"We haven't got all day," Lydia hisses at Stiles, batting at his shoulder, before pushing her pillowcase of purloined items into his back, literally shoving him to the exit.

He kind of likes how bossy she is.

Clambering out the window and down the fire escape really ratchets Stiles' heartbeat up again. It’s not because he's out of shape; it's because he’s experiencing a giddy sort of fear, knowing the FBI are so close. He's always enjoyed being able to pull one over Kyle McCall, and this is somewhat hilarious, escaping with a bundle of evidence without him even seeing them.

He might have seen Isaac, but that could be even more fun: Mr. McCall _suspecting_ that Scott's "clique" has something to do with his new woeful inability to find evidence for his job, but having no way to prove it or know for sure, would be awesome. Ah, the sweet, sweet scent of denial.

"Wait," Allison says, her pace calming as they disappear out of sight around the nearest building. "Where's—"

"Creepy Uncle Peter had to stay behind," Lydia says primly, not slowing down at all. "I might have accidentally put wolfsbane powder on the window lever and shut it behind him." She smiles widely, and keeps walking.

"I don't know whether to be more worried about how I'm impressed by that, or by the fact that my dead aunt is very impressed with that," Allison says.

Lydia immediately starts bitching about the fact they're keeping secrets, and Allison tries to explain the ghosts falteringly. Stiles hangs back and lets her do it, mirroring Scott's pace as his friend scrolls through a bunch of text messages.

"Isaac's meeting us at the car," Scott says. "We parked around the block just in case."

"Probably a good idea," Stiles admits. "Dad used to bust me sneaking pastries from the bakery without him because Deputy Miller kept seeing the Jeep parked out front."

"The twins want to meet up, see what we found," Scott says, and looks across at Stiles. "What do you think?"

"I think… Allison found a laptop," Stiles says, slowly. "I vote we check to see if it's password-locked, and if so… Get it cracked open." Scott flexes one of his hands. "I mean e _lectronically_ cracked, Mr. Blue Steel 2013."

Isaac's leaning against the car when they get there, looking a little troubled. "Your dad's creepy," he says, staring away from the group in the direction of the apartments.

"It's a statement that applies to… a lot of us," Stiles says, considering it. "Maybe we should rename us Team Daddy Issues."

"Your dad is _awesome,_ " Scott immediately defends.

"I'm so open with my feelings that I'm basically transparent, and I never, _ever_ vocally pick killing someone as plan A," Stiles says.

"Point. He's still awesome, though."

"…yeah, he totally is. So let’s stick with McCall pack."

"Since when are we called the McCall pack?" Lydia demands.

"Because you name the pack after the Alpha," Isaac says.

"Yeah, but just because Scott's the Alpha _werewolf_ doesn't automatically give him the right," Lydia argues. "I can make a very strong argument for me being the Alpha banshee."

"You're the _only_ banshee," Allison says.

"Yeah," Lydia says. "And you're the Alpha human."

"Allison isn't the only human in the pack," Stiles argues.

"You're going to argue that Allison _isn't_ the Alpha human, though? Seriously?" Lydia tilts her head.

"I'm really not," Stiles says, sadly. Allison beams.

"So we're _not_ the McCall pack?" Isaac says, a sad whine in his voice. Allison watches Scott warily, like his answer had better be a _good_ one, or maybe Scott will be her next arrow-practice target.

“We’ll figure it out later,” Scott says, the giant coward. “How about the laptop?”

Stiles rolls his eyes at Scott, and tugs the laptop — a fairly new-looking Macbook Air — from Scott’s grip, flipping it open on the top of Allison's car; there's a tiny amount of battery power, but as expected, a log-on screen demands a password. "Awesome," he sighs. "Any one of you know how to—" He gestures at the laptop, and makes a sound which might mean _bypass a Mac password_ or might mean _oh god I'm too tired for this shit._

"Don't even _look_ at me," Lydia says. "I prioritised learning Greek over geek. That's what Starbucks gift cards are for."

Stiles frowns, his brain automatically going to wondering if you can use a gift card in a laptop like you can use a credit card to open some doors.

"Not like that, dumbass," Lydia says, rolling her eyes at Stiles. Ha, and she says she's _not_ psychic. "And I've told you before I'm _not psychic._ "

"How did you—" Stiles blurts.

"You have a very open face," Scott says. "In fact, one could even say that you're so open with your feelings that you're transparent, even."

Stiles bunches his hand into a fist. "I can still suggest killing someone as a first recourse, though. As a serious solution to many of our long-term problems. Team Daddy issues, yo."

"Sure you can, buddy," Scott says, patting him consolingly on the back.

" _So_ Lydia," Allison says, loudly, "before I die of testosterone poisoning, how _do_ you use a Starbucks gift card to open a locked laptop?"

"Simple," Lydia says, digging one out of her purse and throwing it at Stiles. He fumbles it, nearly drops it, but manages to catch it – mostly by dropping himself.

"Ha," he tells the giftcard, and he looks up at his friends defiantly from where he's half doing a split on the sidewalk. " _What,_ this is all-human reflexes, people. Beta human's got the _skills_."

"It's a bribe," Scott realizes, as Stiles awkwardly clambers back up to a standing position.

"Danny," Allison says. " _Brilliant_ plan, Lydia _._ "

"Of course," Lydia says. "I came up with it." She digs a finger into Scott's chest hard enough that he winces. Her manicures are lethal. Or she paints her nails with wolfsbane. Yeah, there's a reason Stiles thinks she's literally the _perfect woman._ "But get the twins to come too. If all else fails…" She purses her lips and smiles. "Eye candy also works."

Stiles automatically rubs his forehead. He's glad she suggested it because he's kind of learned his lesson on that score.

#

"No," Danny says.

It's not surprising, what with seven extra people crowded into Danny's bedroom, four of whom had probably never been in it before, suddenly wanting something from him.

Stiles opens his mouth to try and persuade him, because he is the talker of the group, but Danny points a finger specifically at him. "I said _no,_ " Danny says, "and you can't even throw your hot cousin at me this time, Stilinski. I've already _got_ all the eye candy that I need."

Ethan looks sheepishly pleased, and rubs the back of Danny's neck a little. Danny leans unconsciously into the touch. Aiden just rolls his eyes; he's long since given up on Ethan's antics now they’re free from Deucalion’s crusade of murder and destruction.

"Wait," Scott says, looking from Danny to Stiles, " _cousin_?"

Stiles freezes. Aw, _shit._

"But you don't have any aunts or uncles," Scott says, blithely continuing. Stiles tries his best to look innocent, but it's probably not fooling anyone.

Danny frowns up at Stiles. "Then who was that naked guy in your room—no, wait, scratch that. I don't even want to know." He swivels on his wheeled desk chair and steadfastly turns to his own computer screen, as if ignoring them will make them all go away.

"Yeah, Stiles," Lydia says, and Stiles tries his best to clamp down on the wince that threatens, because any reaction is basically throwing himself to the damn wolves. "Who _was_ the naked man in your room?"

Stiles grits his teeth. "It was just Derek – can we go back to trying to bribe Danny to work for us?"

" _Derek,_ " Scott says. "You had _Derek Hale naked in your room_."

"Oh, my god." Stiles sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "It wasn't _like_ that."

"Kind of struggling to find a decent explanation for him being naked in your room," Scott continues, although he's grinning widely now. Scott really needs to improve on his joke delivery.

"He wasn't _entirely_ naked," Stiles says. "Just shirtless, a lot—"

"That's not really helping you," Lydia says. "Just FYI."

"He does look pretty good shirtless," Danny offers. Ethan snarls a little, which makes Danny duck his head and blush.

"Is he right?" Lydia asks Stiles, peering at him almost aggressively. "I always thought he would be, but I haven't been given the pleasure."

"Derek _did_ only text you and not any of us," Scott says, thoughtfully. "Is there something you haven't been telling us?"

"I've seen him shirtless," Allison says. Stiles looks at her gratefully, feeling a little less embarrassed. Maybe Derek's just a chronic shirt-loser. Maybe it's just Derek's calling in life to wander around semi-naked. Maybe… Stiles should not say this stuff out loud. Huh. A brain-to-mouth filter. Who knew Stiles had one after all? "Danny's _totally_ right."

" _When_?" Isaac asks, folding his arms, suddenly interested.

"And tied up," she adds, somewhat dreamily. "While my aunt tortured him," Allison clarifies, when Isaac makes a tiny sad whimpering noise.

"I did enjoy that," Kate says, sitting on the edge of Danny's bed, looking up at Stiles with a distinctive leer, biting seductively at her lower lip. "The way he _screamed_ —"

"You can shut the hell up," Stiles snaps, rubbing at his forehead.

"Uh," Allison says, looking upset.

"Not you," Stiles says, and gestures at the space behind her. "Ost-ghay on the ed-bay."

"Mm, ignoring your crazy, there's been a lot of gay on the ed-bay in this room," Danny says. "And I'd like more of that at some point. So if all you – excluding my boyfriend – could just get out of my house—"

"No problem," Aiden says, cheerfully, backing up. Lydia smacks a finger into his chest, and he stops, sighing. "Apparently not until you've done your computer voodoo," he says, waggling his fingers at the laptop. "So if you could get on that right away, that would be swell."

"You can't order him around," Ethan says, frowning and jutting his chin stubbornly. "He said no."

"What other options do we have?" Scott says, folding his arms and looking around the others. "Pool what we _did_ get and hope some of it makes sense?"

"It's a start," Stiles says, edging looks at Kate's ghost, who's leaning back and checking out Isaac's butt. Stiles shivers. Poor Isaac. "But—"

Ethan holds up his hand to the others, and holds up one finger – a clear _give me a minute here_ gesture. He wraps his hand around Danny's neck, warm and heavy. "C'mon, babe," he says, using his other hand to tilt Danny's face towards him. He smiles and actually manages to _smoulder_ at Danny and Stiles is not jealous at all, no sirree.

Stiles tried to smoulder at someone once.

They offered to call him an ambulance, thinking he was suffering from a sudden hernia.

"It's just a little thing. And it would make me very, very happy," Ethan says, his voice getting quieter and huskier.

Stiles narrows his eyes. Goddamned werewolves with their natural powers of seduction which Stiles is pretty damn sure is one of the secret werewolf powers that they haven't admitted to yet.

"I guess I could," Danny says, visibly melting.

At least Aiden's rolling his eyes at his brother's antics, so Stiles doesn't feel alone for the moment.

"It'll take time, though," Danny says, looking pointedly at the intruders in his room.

"We have time," Stiles says, looking to the others for confirmation.

"I meant, get the hell out of my room," Danny says.

As an afterthought he plucks the Starbucks gift card from Stiles' fingers.

#

They drop Stiles off at his house first, Scott making a vague promise to call later after he's seen his mom, and they leave him with the four pillowcases of pilfered stuff. The Sheriff's house is probably not the best place in the world to _hold_ stolen goods, but Stiles can catalogue it faster than they can.

He's methodical – he's stalked his dad at work enough to know how to handle evidence – and even when Erica reappears to sit in the corner of his room, Stiles is able to tune her out while he snaps pictures of what Jennifer had in her apartment.

Most of it is pretty harmless, Stiles thinks. They were a bit cavalier in grabbing things. Stiles is pretty sure that the unopened box of tampons are probably not a power item of dire druidic evil; then again, blood is an important element in a lot of spells and rituals… Stiles winces at the tampons, and puts them to one side.

In the end, once he's gone through and photographed the contents of all four pillowcases, there's only a small number of interesting items: a carved wooden box, etched with what looks like star constellations, that Stiles can't open; a large polished grey stone which is heavier than it looks; the four photographs of Stiles taken from a distance along with a note saying POTENTIAL WAY IN which makes him shiver; a pile of herbs which Stiles puts into evidence bags he's "liberated" from the Sheriff's office over the years so Deaton can help him identify them; a roll of different colored candles with sigils engraved up their lengths; two huge hardcover books which look a couple of centuries old; the book from beneath the bed which is half written in French, half a language he can't identify, and a silver knife with runes inscribed in the handle which Stiles thinks is an athame.

There's also a bundle of candles, some with etchings, and Stiles photographs them too, before sitting at his computer and uploading the photos. He shares the folder with Lydia immediately, and then puts them in a zip file.

He's taken a lot of photos. It's a large file. Stiles bags up the items again, separating them into piles because they made the smart decision to divide up the labor of the research.

He puts the book that's half in French on Allison's pile, along with the silver knife (because weapons are totally her thing) and the wooden box, in the hope that Allison's dad might have seen something like it before. Lydia gets the hardcover book that's in ancient Latin, and the candles, because Stiles would probably burn himself trying them out. Stiles puts the photographs of himself on Scott's pile, because they're kind of creeping him out, and the herbs, because even with Stiles' lessons with Deaton, Scott spends more time with the vet. He keeps the grey stone – pretty much because it's super heavy to carry – and the other book, which is written in what Stiles thinks is middle English. He can't scan all the books because it would take forever, but he can make a start on that one while the girls work on translating the others.

It's a good idea to split them up, actually, because maybe all these items are parts which make up a deadly druidic whole and Stiles doesn't want to blow up his room. Granted, Jennifer's apartment had been relatively intact. It bothers Stiles that they were able to find stuff, actually. Because she was either overconfident, or there's nothing harmful about what's left behind. Regardless, it's a good thing that his face hasn't been found in a dead woman's apartment.

He wonders again if Jennifer will join the parade of dead to taunt him.

Stiles doesn't know if he wants her to or not. If she does turn up, he has no idea what his reaction is going to be. There will probably be plural reactions. Most of which will veer dangerously close to having padded walls and twice daily medication in his future. And if she doesn't turn up, it might mean she's still alive.

The upload of the photographs is still only at 20%. Stiles rolls his eyes at the philistines who call themselves his friends and refuse to join Dropbox with him (and man, does he want that extra 500mb of space, but that's only a side-effect) and heads over to his bed to wait. Goodness knows a nap might do his still aching head some good.

As is par for the recent course, Stiles' brain is too active to let him rest. At least this time, in amongst the mortal peril and terror which seems to be the norm, there is a question that pulls away from the pack of questions tumbling around in his mind.

Stiles thinks it's probably because in the scheme of things it might be the least dangerous of all his questions, and his brain is deliberately latching onto the thoughts that won't harm him, in a vague attempt at self-preservation.

It's still a question he wants an answer to: Why did Derek only text _him_?

The more he thinks about it, the more it's going to bug him. The question buzzes in his already aching skull, and he's always been too curious for his own good; unfortunately, this isn't a secret he can gain by eavesdropping on his dad's phone calls, or sneaking into the station's archive room. Unfortunately, he only really has one source. And that source constantly gives the Grinch a run for his money when it comes to grumpiness.

_Why did you only text me_? Stiles sends as a text to HALES, not expecting a quick answer. He lies back in his bed, thinking about trying to sleep, but it's elusive; he stares blankly at his wall for a minute, and the chime of his phone is a welcome distraction.

_CHEAPER,_ the text reads. _KNEW YOU HAD A TEXTING PLAN AND YOU'D ALERT THE OTHERS_.

"Taking me for granted, huh?" Stiles huffs out loud. He squints and quickly checks his room. Nope, no ghosts to overhear him. Awesome. He's about to hit reply when his text alert chimes again.

_WHAT DID YOU FIND_?

Stiles snorts. If Derek's being a miser, which to be honest works with his image if you ignore his penchant for expensive leather and new cars, then sending two texts kinda defeats the purpose.

_There was a laptop, password protected, Danny is hacking it now_ , Stiles types. _We took photos of everything else. I'm uploading them as a zip file; the password is…_ He pauses, tongue pushed into his cheek as he thinks about it. Well, if nothing else, it'll probably confirm that Derek's doing most of the texting. Even though the angry capslock is a major giveaway. _…the name I called you when Scott summoned Peter to the high school over the PA system. What email do I send the link to?_

There's a longer pause this time; Stiles uses the time to shuffle over to his laptop and check the progress of the upload. It's nearly done.

_IAMNOTASOURWOLF@GMAIL.COM_ , his phone chimes in with as the upload hits complete.

The laugh that bubbles out of Stiles is unexpected; it stings the back of his throat like acid, and it's a complete surprise. As the sound chokes up his throat, he tries to think about the last time he laughed. Maybe it was in sharp relief, with roots brushing against his face, and the cotton of his dad's uniform, damp with sweat beneath with his hands as they hugged out their relief at being alive.

"What's so funny?"

Stiles whirls, vigilance always keeping him too on edge, but he lets out his breath when the intruder to his room is real.

"Your dad let me in as he was leaving for the rest of his shift," Scott says, pushing into his room. "Whatcha doing?"

"Uploading the research to a zip file so we can all have a copy," Stiles says. "You know what they say. A million heads is better than one, unless you're facing down a hydra."

"Ah, that well known saying," Scott says. "Are you playing anything on—" He gestures at Stiles' phone, probably wanting to steal it for Candy Crush because his brick of a cellphone (his mom stopped replacing his phone with smartphones after Scott beat Stiles’ cellphone-destroying record when his fourth one got crushed in a werewolf-related incident) can barely handle Snake.

"Just texting Derek," Stiles says, rolling his eyes and throwing Scott the phone. "I didn't wipe my internet history, loser, so if you find anything that blinds you, it's your own fault for looking."

"Did you say _sexting_ Derek?" Scott asks, as Stiles turns to his laptop, typing in the password to his email account.

" _Just_ texting."

"That's what I said: sexting."

"And _I_ said: Just. Texting," Stiles starts to say, very slowly, but Scott's hunched over Stiles' tiny phone screen, the distinctive tinny sound of candies being crushed starting to fill the air, and his shoulders are _definitely_ shaking. "You'd better get me past level 135, or you're fired as best friend, buddy."

"It was good thinking, earlier," Scott says, after a few frantic minutes of bashing fruitlessly at Stiles' phone screen. "For the escape route. Back in the apartment."

"Yeah, I guess," Stiles says. Normally he'd come up with a wittier retort, but the headache's sapping his power. He wants to sleep for a _week_.

His lack of real response doesn't put Scott off his stride. "It's nice hearing you come up with a plan again," Scott says to Stiles, smiling one of his genuine, off-centre smiles at him.

Stiles smiles weakly in return as Erica smirks knowingly at him from the corner of his room. "I'd love to randomly take the compliment, but—you tend to only compliment me when you want something. So spill."

Scott's face wrinkles. "Dad's invited himself to dinner. Do you think—"

"I'm there," Stiles says.

"You don't have to stay for—"

"I'll stay for the full time," Stiles says, rolling his eyes and turning back to the completed upload. He quickly copies the link and pastes it into an email; after a second's pause, he types the emails into the BCC folder. The last time he tried to CC everyone in, it had been a Reply All drama of epic disproportion. "Besides, we can work out the distribution of stuff at your place. It amuses me to be trafficking things we stole off a dead woman under your dad's nose."

Scott's smile is always brilliant. "You're the best."

Stiles smiles back. Druids and emissaries can be overlook him as much as they want: the people in Stiles' life that actually matter notice him just _fine._

#

Scott walks his bike and takes the three pillowcases of stuff with his werewolf strength so that he and Stiles can keep the same pace. It's almost nice – the temperature's hitting the scarf-but-no-sweater range that California's fall season does so well, and the skies are still clear and light – but something’s missing. Maybe it's the consequences of the faux-sacrifice that's coloring the atmosphere.

Or maybe it's the knowledge that Jennifer had Stiles' face in her apartment. _Potential way in_ was written by the photographs of him. What does that even _mean_?

Whatever it means, the walk to the McCall house is done in a weird half-silence, one that isn't normal. Maybe Scott's just used to Stiles filling up the silence. The silence becomes more tangible as they walk, and Stiles is almost pathetically grateful when his phone chimes.

_Just downloaded the package,_ the text from HALES reads. _We think the wooden box is cursed. Do not open_!

"Text from Cora," Stiles explains, showing it to Scott. _Thanks Cora,_ he texts back.

" _Did_ you open the wooden box?" Scott asks.

"No," Stiles says, and admits, "but now I really want to. It's a good thing I put it in your bag."

"I think we're cursed enough," Scott says, his face looking suddenly pinched and his eyes going unfocused.

"Is that—" Stiles starts, gesturing in the direction of Scott's gaze.

"Yeah," Scott says, sounding queasy. "He's—It's nothing I can't handle. Same shit he used to pull when he was alive."

Scott's uncle had been… pathologically violent, Stiles remembers. He only got a glimpse of the private files his dad brought home, and he censored _himself_ from reading more; Harold McCall was a crazy son of a bitch.

And Kyle McCall was worse for standing back and _letting_ the psychopath anywhere near Scott.

Much like their imperfect hearts, most of Scott's wounds were invisible. It didn't stop them from hurting. If Stiles could do that pain drain thing that Scott could, but with emotional pain, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

But that was kind of the definition of being best friends, Stiles guesses. He reaches across and squeezes Scott's shoulder companionably.

HALES interrupts the gesture. Stiles pulls up his phone again to read, _How did you know it was me?_

Stiles can't help the smile, and texts back. _Like I'm giving all my secrets away to you._

_You don't have any secrets,_ Cora responds.

"Do I have secrets?" Stiles squints at his phone, and then at Scott. "I thought I did and now I'm not so sure."

"I would have said no this morning," Scott says, thoughtfully. "But then Danny said you had a sexy cousin and I walked in on you sexting Derek Hale, and my entire opinion of you has flipped a hundred and eighty degrees."

Stiles narrows his eyes. "My opinion of you hasn't. It's still in the gutter."

"The gutter's where I do my best work, man," Scott says, offering up a weak smile. His eyes dart to an abandoned garden a couple of times, though, and Stiles' stomach swoops a little in sympathy.

Ghosts are the _worst._

"So do you want me to do anything specific during dinner?" Stiles asks, texting, _Fuck you, I'm an onion; I have layers_ to Cora as he does. "I can accidentally trip and punch your father in the face. I have a history of clumsiness."

"Nah," Scott says. "But any verbal zingers you can land would be much appreciated."

"Ha, you weren't there for the best one," Stiles says, and recounts his _F all the way to U_ joke. Scott cackles. The laughter's too loud, Scott compensating too much for his unsettled nerves over the ghost harassing him, but it's a step in the right direction.

It's also interesting to note how Stiles doesn't have any ghosts around while Scott does, and he can't see Harold. Stiles doesn't know what it means, but he mentally tucks it aside for future reference.

_PROPOSITION MY SISTER AGAIN AND I'LL RIP YOUR THROAT OUT WITH MY TEETH_ , beeps the next text. Stiles laughs and shows it to Scott. "And Cora wonders how I can tell if it's her texting or Derek."

"What an airhead," Scott says, locking his bike to the front fence. "Oh, sorry, am I insulting _family_?"

"Mmm-hmmm," Stiles says, and slings an arm around Scott's shoulder. "My _cousin_ is about as airheaded as my _brother._ " He gives Scott a brief noogie, and skips away laughing, pushing his body into his best sprint; it's nowhere near fast enough to evade a werewolf, and Scott grabs him seconds later into a headlock. Stiles laughs into Scott's side, the sound burning his throat a little, and they stay like that, Scott yanking Stiles and the pillowcases up the front steps and into the house.

" _Boys,_ " Melissa sighs from the kitchen doorway, smiling fondly at them. "Kyle's not here yet. Go be useful and help Isaac empty the dishwasher while I set the table."

"Got it, Mrs. McCall," Stiles says, muffled by Scott's armpit.

By the time Stiles extricates himself from Scott and the two get into the kitchen, Isaac's not so much emptying the dishwasher of clean dishes as he is staring into the cutlery drawer like it's a giant mystery.

"Silver's a myth, kiddo," Stiles tells Isaac. "Plus, I don't think Mrs. McCall earns enough for her cutlery to be anything but stainless steel."

"Hm?" Isaac tears his gaze away, and startles on seeing Scott and Stiles staring at him worriedly. "Sorry. Allison told me earlier about ghosts, and it got me a little rattled.”

Stiles tries to make a _cut it out_ gesture, slicing two fingers across his own throat, but even though he aborts the movement halfway, Scott still sees it.

"I can't avoid talking about it forever," Scott says, and then he squares his shoulders and looks at Isaac. "Yeah. Sorry I didn't mention it earlier. It's…"

Isaac's smile is bittersweet. "I know a little bit about the past hurting."

Scott and Isaac look at each other in an understanding stare of empathy and compassion. Stiles pushes between them to get to the dishwasher. "C'mon," Stiles says, a little irritated by the fact that they’re excluding him. Yeah, he might not have had an abusive parental figure but he knows _something_ of grief in his past. He pushes down the irritation. "Faster we do this, the quicker we can find your mom's candy stash."

"I _heard that,_ " Melissa calls through from the dining room.

"My scorching wit would have been wasted if you hadn't," Stiles yells back.

"Ah, the sweet sound of a teenager's inflated ego," Kyle McCall says from the kitchen door.

Isaac flinches and automatically edges behind Scott, which pisses Stiles off more than just the sight of Mr. McCall's stupid face does: Isaac was a little cagey about how much of a dick Kyle was on seeing him outside the apartment. Considering Mr. Lahey’s abusive ways were as much psychological as physical, Kyle had better watch his step around both Isaac and Scott, because Stiles will _always_ appreciate more of a reason to punch all the stupid expressions from Kyle’s stupid face.

"Well, y'know, we would have saved your poor fragile ears from having to hear it if you had the ability to lower yourself to common courtesies, like ringing the doorbell or knocking," Stiles says. "Just a little free life lesson for you there, pal."

Kyle's smile is uneasy but it doesn't flicker. "I don't suppose we'll be lucky enough to have your so-special brand of wit over dinner tonight, as I'm sure your loving father has plenty of time for you as usual."

"Well, I wouldn't expect you to really know. I mean, loving father, that's a role you don't have any particular expertise over, right?" Stiles says. Scott’s looking a little green. Stiles musters on. "As a matter of fact, Scott and Isaac invited me to dinner just to raise the general IQ of the room. Apparently tonight's main guest kinda lowers the number."

"Stiles—" Scott says, in a pained voice, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"He makes it too easy," Stiles mutters, and he nods in Kyle's direction. "If you want to go make small talk with Papa Bear's small mind, Isaac and I are okay to finish with the dishes."

Scott winces, but does go towards Kyle, staunchly marching past his dad towards where his mom is. It makes sense that Scott wants to protect her.

"I swear," Isaac says, in a shaky sort of voice, as he leans into the dishwasher, facing away from Stiles, "that if I hadn't met your dad and Allison's dad that I would permanently believe that all dads everywhere suck _ass._ "

Stiles pats him on the shoulder.

Dinner isn't much better. Stiles is glad he accepted the invitation because he can run interference, and he's probably going to have to apologize later to Scott, because he'd always laughed at Scott's description of the painful Argent dinner parties; Stiles had forgotten dinner _could_ be this painful, not in situations when you weren't constantly turning to an empty chair, expecting a response that isn't ever going to come again.

Oh, man, he's just depressing himself now – so when Heather smiles at him sadly from the McCall windowsill, Stiles doesn't even react for a moment.

Well, then he flails and drops his cutlery, but it's not _new_ behavior from him.

"Having a little trouble with gravity, Stilinski?" Kyle McCall offers, expression blank.

Stiles shrugs. "Nothing old age isn't already doing to your behind, sir."

Melissa hides a smile behind a forkful of pasta.

Heather stares at Stiles. "It must be nice still having people around you. I miss my family."

Stiles swallows and looks down at his food, suddenly not hungry anymore.

"It's a shame that high school isn't quite the regimen for manners it used to be," Kyle says.

"Because you're a sweetheart," Stiles mutters. "You know we _could_ make this dinner more awkward. Mrs. McCall, I'm pregnant with Scott's baby."

"Ah, yes, I already knew about that," Melissa says.

" _I_ didn't," Scott jokes, eyes wide. "And if I didn’t, then who's the dad, huh?"

"I'm sorry," Isaac says, and honestly, Stiles does almost want to kiss him, because Isaac is _speaking up._ At a dinner table where a dad is being a dick. On a progress level, it's kinda huge. "I tripped and fell and took him against the dishwasher."

" _Someone_ should," Heather says, from the window. "Because I didn't get to, and that was a shame."

"Why Isaac," Stiles says, "I didn't know you had it in you."

"From what he said, _you_ had it in you," Scott says.

" _Scott,_ " Melissa says. Scott just waggles his eyebrows at her, and she can't help the smile.

"It's nice to see the boundaries you're settling down for our son," Kyle says.

"Funny how you only remember your son when you think there's a quick fix to a situation, so you can _swoop in_ and be a hero," Melissa says, and Kyle's eyes narrow. Stiles puts a hand on Scott's elbow, reassuringly, and Scott sends him a thankful look.

"Tell me he's thinking of getting fixed," Stiles says. "Would Deaton do it? He spays cats, right?"

"That's females," Scott corrects. "He neuters males."

"You could get a discount for the procedure, though."

"Yeah," Scott says, coolly staring down his dad.

Kyle opens his mouth, presumably to say something _else_ stupid or idiotic, but his phone starts ringing, and his face twists. "I've got to take this," he mutters, pushing the chair back and padding through into the hall, pushing the door behind him.

"Can you—" Stiles says to Scott and Isaac, pointing at his ear and pointing in the hall.

"Boys," Melissa says, but it's a token protest; she looks just as curious as Stiles feels about the contents of the phone call.

"Werewolves, that's cool," Heather says. "I totally would have boned someone who knew about werewolves and told me all about them—Wait, you didn't do _any_ of that."

Scott nods, and frowns at the closed door. Stiles squints at the window. Isaac follows his gaze curiously, and Stiles tears his eyes away.

Kyle steps back into the dining room after a minute. "I have to go," he says. "Thank for you the lovely dinner, Melissa. I hope we can pick up the conversation we were going to have at another time."

"Looking forward to it," Melissa says.

It probably would have had a better delivery had she not pushed it through gritted teeth.

They all turn to Scott when the door slams shut.

"There's been another body found," Scott says. "With the same marks found on a body a couple of days ago and on Ms. Blake's body."

"Shit," Isaac says.

Melissa glares at Isaac for his language choice, but there's not a lot of heat behind it.

"More dead bodies," Heather says in the background. " _Yawn_."

"Mom," Scott starts, "we—"

"No," Melissa says, immediately. " _No._ I'm not letting you all into the morgue again. Any of you. You're kids, not… young Sherlock Holmes."

"Dibs on Watson," Stiles says. "Wait. Does that make me the sidekick again? I'm never going to be Batman. _Ever_." He misses Erica. He at least got be _her_ Batman.

"Sherlock Holmes wasn't Batman," Isaac says, confused.

"Mm, but in the movie he _was_ Iron Man," Melissa says, her mouth curving into a fond Robert Downey Jr. related smile.

"It's the _principle_ ," Stiles says.

Melissa sighs when Scott turns his best puppy dog eye expression in her direction. "I will if I can. No promises." She edges a look to Stiles. "Will you be okay seeing that?"

Stiles ignores the flash of Heather's blonde hair in the corner of his eye. The last time Melissa showed him a body, it was hers, after all. "It's not like I have a lot of childhood sweethearts left to lose," Stiles says. "I think we're safe."

Melissa nods at him, her expression tight. "It probably won't be for a few days, though. But if I can get you in, I'll text you."

"Yeah, just text Stiles," Scott says, perking up. "Apparently he's the go-to guy for that now."

"You make it sound so _sordid,_ " Stiles whines.

"You were the one that had Derek Hale shirtless in your room, Stiles," Isaac says, digging his fork into the cooling food in front of them. "I think you brought the sordidness all on your own."

"Oh my _god,_ " Stiles whines, shoving an unreasonable amount of dinner into his face to stop himself saying the unflattering things he wants to say to his friends that Melissa might not find very appropriate.

"Derek _Hale,_ " Melissa says, leaning forward on one elbow, dark eyes lighting up. "Is he the darkly handsome one with the muscles and the perky ass you could bounce a quarter off?"

" _Mom,_ " Scott whines, and Melissa chuckles wickedly.

"It wasn't even _like_ that," Stiles grumbles, but it just seems to make the others laugh more. "Ugh, you're all the worst."

Scott and Isaac agree that's probably the case.

"Actually, you're the worst, Stiles," Heather says from the window, her head tilted, her image flickering for a moment to his last view of her. Pale. Strangled. Lifeless. "I know your mom would agree."

Stiles clenches his hands into fists.

She probably _would_ agree.

He didn't need darkness in his heart to know that.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_“Watching a coast as it slips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. There it is before you, smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, and always mute with an air of whispering, ‘Come and find out’."_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

Boyd stares at Stiles through his first four periods.

It would be unnerving, but Stiles has already had a strange weekend; waiting for news about more dead bodies, waiting for Danny to illegally hack into a dead woman's laptop, reading a pile of dusty books while dead women occasionally stop by to talk to him.

Boyd's silent staring is almost a relief.

Still, his nerves are frazzled, so when he sits down at the lunch table with the intention of finding out where Lydia really is (the nice woman in the main office let Stiles check the absence slips, but Lydia's only read "mental health day", which means _nothing_ , because Lydia had her doctor sign a stack of blank notes last year), but no, the others think it's funnier to tease him instead. As soon as Allison tries to make a joke about Stiles' illicit affair with Derek Hale, Stiles stomps off to find new friends to sit with, because he apparently needs some.

It's only when he's halfway across the cafeteria that he realizes he's automatically heading towards Boyd's usual table.

It's been empty since he went missing, like everyone at school knows they ought to be mourning him, and they remember him by keeping the space clear. Sometimes the only thing you can do to remember someone is to keep the silences where they used to be.

Annoyed with himself, and with Boyd's stare following him, Stiles can’t sit in Boyd’s empty table; instead he heads for the outside tables, mentally thanking California's fall weather. He wonders fleetingly where Derek and Cora are. They mentioned going south. The south might be even nicer.

The tables outside are mostly full, and Stiles is mentally resigning himself to pocketing what food he can and dumping the rest when he sees a mostly-empty table under the shadow of the main wall of the school. The table's one occupant?

Harley Sutherland.

Well. Stiles can either swallow his pride and go back to his so-called friends, or he can swallow his pride and apologize to Harley and get one of his old friends back.

He pushes forwards and makes himself speak before his nerves can swallow them back. "Can I sit here?"

Harley looks up from her brown bag, and her face freezes a little. "Free country, I guess," she says, and crunches the top of her bag down, like she's thinking about going.

Stiles puts his tray down and sits down. "I'm a dick," he says.

Harley pauses, eyebrows furrowing, but she does look at him. "I—" she starts.

"A horrible, huge, massive, puss-filled _dick,_ " Stiles says, eloquently. "I'm the dirt you tread in. The moldy dirt that makes you smell like skunk for nine weeks and makes everyone hate you."

"I got it," Harley says. "You're dirt."

"A dirty dick," Stiles says, gesturing enthusiastically. "A tiny, flaccid, hide-it-from-your-children-and-neighbors _disaster_ … although if you're not hiding your dick from your children and neighbors, you're making some seriously questionable life decisions... but when has that ever stopped me, let's be real about that."

"Okay," Harley says, " _okay._ "

"The dickiest—" Stiles starts.

Harley laughs at him, covering her face with both hands. "I said I got it, Stilinski. Apology accepted. You were a dick. You're sorry."

"I'm the sorriest dick," Stiles agrees, and he can't help a small smile tugging at his own face. "You're the best, Harley. Abso-fucking-lutely sunshine in a human body. Floral perfection in a bipedal form."

"Don't go too far," Harley warns.

"I just want you to know I'm sorry, and I'm here now." Stiles looks at her earnestly. "I got caught up in my own drama and I shouldn't have excluded you."

"No," Harley says, and looks at him evenly, her chin tilted. "You shouldn't. But it's _okay._ You're forgiven." She considers him for a moment. "You can continue with those compliments, though, if you like."

"You've forgiven me now," Stiles says. "I don't need to waste the effort."

Harley rolls her eyes. "I can rescind it—"

"No take-backsies."

"I'm forgetting why I forgave you so quickly."

"Because you _love_ me."

Harley narrows her eyes, but doesn't actually argue. "I missed you, rubber face," she says instead, after a moment.

Stiles' heart tugs at him for a moment, and says _you're not worth it,_ but he pushes it down and forces a smile. "I missed you _calling_ me rubber face."

"Okay, so, spill," Harley says, curling her lunch bag back open and casting around inside, like candy might magically appear this time. "Why have you broken up with the Scooby Gang?"

"I haven't _broken up_ —" Stiles starts. "And we're _not_ the Scooby Gang."

"The Scotty Gang, then," Harley says, grinning at him as she bundles her bag closed again in obvious disgust. "What did Mr. Lopsided do to you?"

"Teased me mercilessly, mostly," Stiles says.

"I mean, what _new_."

Stiles stares at her in mock-annoyance. "Seriously, remind me again why I wanted you to forgive me?"

"Hey, I'm floral perfection in bipedal form," Harley reminds him.

Stiles gives her a rueful look. "That you are." He leans back in his chair, idly playing with the lid of his water bottle. "They're just teasing me over something that happened last year, y'know? And they're not leaving it alone."

Harley frowns. "Something that happened last year and they didn't notice?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, shrugging stiffly. "It's funny. There's this… thing I'm doing, and my… new boss – I'll be working for a vet – he says I'm kinda gonna be…" He frowns. "It's weird. Maybe he's right. Maybe I should quit while I'm already at _this_ level of being ignored."

"C'mon," Harley says. "You wouldn't have made such a condensed fool of yourself to get my forgiveness if you didn't need to talk. Tell Aunty Harley what's wrong. And ix-nay on the quitting talk. We are _not_ quitters, boy."

"I'm older than you. Don't pull that mother hen routine."

"Older by _two weeks,_ Stilinski."

"Fifteen days," Stiles corrects, and sighs. "He warned me that I'm going to be overlooked. I guess it hasn't really sunk in until now what that kinda means."

"Ah," Harley says, knowingly. "That's service jobs for you, man. I worked for a year in McDonald's and I might as well have not been there at all."

"For a year?" Stiles says, surprised. Harley gives him a flat look. Oh, yeah. He kinda hasn't been there for her this year. "Yeah, I guess people just see the stupid uniform."

"Don't worry about it," Harley says. "Being overlooked's okay, as long as you get what you want out of the job."

"Minimum wage and the irremovable smell of grease from all body hair?" Stiles says, wrinkling his nose. "I guess I'm already kind of used to it."

"Being overlooked?"

Stiles makes a noncommittal sound. Boyd's not staring at him right now, but Boyd would understand more than most, he thinks. "Yeah," he says. "I mean, Scott right. You remember Scott."

"Yes," Harley says dryly, "I do vaguely recall something about the floppy-haired asthmatic lacrosse enthusiast that you're practically surgically attached to."

Stiles snorts. "Yeah, well. Last summer, I dunno. He was so wrapped up in doing his own thing, working to save up for his bike, he just…" He shrugs. "He totally forgot to ask me what I'd done. At all. And even now, he hasn't thought to."

Harley considers it. "Were you doing anything interesting?"

Stiles thinks about it. He remembers a dark loft, and the constant _talking,_ and the bad plans, and the worrying, and the not knowing, and the fear when Isaac didn't come back, and he fingers his phone automatically. He thinks about how little they actually accomplished, and Scott's voice when he realized the Alpha pack was a threat, months later than he should have known. He shrugs aimlessly. "I guess not."

"Well, now you're doing more interesting things," Harley says, "maybe he'll ask. You've got a boss. Boss _implies_ new job. If he doesn't ask about that, then _McCall_ is the stinkiest dick in Beacon Hills."

"True," Stiles agrees. "Also, he possibly _has_ the stinkiest dick in all of Beacon Hills, but do not ask how I know; it's a traumatic freshman story and one that would fracture your fragile sanity, believe me."

"I believe you," Harley says, looking slightly green. "Still, it's nice – you and me both with new jobs at the same time. Because you're not quitting."

"I'm not?"

"Nope," Harley says. "We are _not quitters,_ okay? Losers, yeah. Quitters, nope."

"Losers— Speak for yourself, H. I'm hot property. It's associating with Scott that drags my cool points right down."

"Suuuure it is," Harley says. "You keep telling yourself that, honey."

"Bah," Stiles says, eloquently. "Fine. Tell me about your new job. Better than McDonald's?"

" _So_ much better," Harley says, and smirks.

Stiles sighs. Man. He'd forgotten her penchant for melodrama. Well, it's not like he can judge her for it; he has melodramatic tendencies himself. Besides, he should humor her. He's the one that's ignored her for a year – a little bit of indulging her melodrama is the _least_ she deserves. "The anticipation is killing me here, buddy."

"The October Travelling Fair's gonna be here this year," Harley says, referencing the annual travelling fair. It's one of the largest in America, and it's been a long time since it came to Beacon County. "We were, what, _five_ years old when it came here the first time? Six?"

"Something like that," Stiles says. If he thinks about it, he can vaguely recall – his hand wrapped in his mom's so tight, lights that danced like fairies across the sky, and a moment in the mirror maze where he couldn't breathe. It was before the hospital, but after the diagnosis. After the terrible word which changed their lives forever. It was his very first panic attack. His mom closed his eyes and held him close and counted breaths with him until he was still, crushed against her; she smelled of cotton candy and vanilla. His mom loved the smell of vanilla. "I don't remember," he stutters out, unable to look Harley quite in the eye.

Over Harley's shoulder, Boyd's started to stare again. There's judgment in his eyes now. Harley directs a considering look at Stiles, like she's thinking about calling him on the obvious lie.

"I'm gonna be one of the scarers on the Ghost Train," Harley says. "A couple of families are already up on the lot – they're training some of us over the next couple of weeks."

"Are they going to have the Mirror Maze again?"

"I thought you didn't remember," Harley says.

Stiles wrinkles his nose. "I just remember bits and pieces of the maze. The mirrors were so wobbly, man—I think at one point I thought I was going to _die_. They had to like… pull the whole maze down. There's this, like, mechanism at the back which they rotate; it brings the mirrors down. Health and safety, I guess, just in case someone has a heart attack in the centre and they need an ambulance, stat."

"Or in case some snotty kid has a panic attack and loses his mom," Harley says, knowingly.

"That too."

"I'll ask for you, see if they still have it," Harley says. "Next time I'm there. I had a good first session last night, anyway."

"I'm glad," Stiles says.

"How about you? You have any fun shifts at work yet?"

Stiles thinks about it, and shakes his head. "Mostly reading so far."

"Reminds me of when my brother got a job at a betting lounge," Harley says. "He had seven guidebooks to read before they even let him mop the floor."

Stiles winces. "Ouch."

"So when's your next shift?" Harley asks, tilting her head. She can't possibly be really interested, but Stiles humors her; rebuilding friendships can be an awkward and lengthy business.

"Tonight," Stiles says, a little grumpy; he had been kind of planning to swing by the Martin's resident and see what Lydia was up to (probably planning world domination, or solving cancer on her pink bedazzled netbook, or something), but his first shift with Deaton was interfering with all his plans. "It's down at the animal clinic." "Cool," Harley says. "I might see you on the bus again."

Stiles smiles. "I'd like that."

#

He doesn't see Harley on the bus to Deaton's, but it's not surprising. The bus is crowded, and Stiles is late by three minutes. Which means he not only gets Deaton's frowny expression, which isn't quite on the same level as parental disapproval but it's _close,_ but he's also treated to an hour long lecture from Deaton.

Mostly on his _potential._ And presumably, how wrong it would be for Stiles to mess that up by being late, or anything else similarly irresponsible.

 _Then_ he follows the responsibility lecture with even _more_ lecture.

Stiles is _definitely_ glad he hasn't forgotten his Adderall today.

"The universe is made up of building blocks. Blocks we can learn to align into position. And any mundane mind can learn the lore, can _take_ the pieces and the herbs and the plants and put them into position," Deaton says. "Granted as you've read so far, there are as many different alignment of objects and incidences as there are stars in the sky, and learning the major formations is a fundamental part of becoming a druid. Sometimes it's only when we've laid these objects out into the pattern that we can learn _why_ certain objects pair together so perfectly."

"So it's a mathematical partnership, like in food," Stiles says, "where basil and tomatoes always go together, or—"

Deaton shakes his head. "I wish it was that easy," he says. "Think of it like this. Say you have the ingredients for basil and tomato soup. But when you add parsley into the mix, if you substitute tomatoes for cucumber, you have a dish that works with all three ingredients, not just two."

"So being a druid is like cooking," Stiles says, frowning.

Deaton pinches his forehead, like he's already regretting taking Stiles on. "In a way," he says, slowly, "but it's a mistake to think of it quite in the same way. Unless you think some people have an innate talent for cookery."

"Like… a spark," Stiles says, his stomach turning a moment in anticipation, because this is a memory he's been revelling in and fearing, all at the same time. He can still remember mountain ash sliding from his hands, even though he should have been out of it forty paces ago. He can still remember the thick unbroken line, like he'd had another sack full of the stuff. And the way the line split when he waved his hands over it.

Derek was the only one who saw that.

Man, why's Stiles even _thinking_ about him now, anyway? It's all the Scotty Gang's fault. He smiles inwardly. Harley'll be happy he's starting to use her nickname for them.

"Exactly," Deaton says, speaking over Stiles' inner monologue. "But where a chef can be decent without talent, and good with study, a druid is _nothing_ without that spark. A chef with a spark of talent can be good without working too hard, and _great_ with some work behind, but a druid is _useless_ with just a spark on its own. It's only the combination of hard work _and_ spark that can bring a result, and even then…" Deaton looks away, looking almost sad for a moment. "Even then it's not always enough. You can learn all the things in the world, Mr. Stilinski, and still be unable to save someone."

When he looks back at Stiles, he doesn’t have tears in his eyes, but Stiles can feel it for a moment: the energy he’s expelling just to keep his ever-present constant mask. Just like everyone else, Deaton feels things, but he’s so good at hiding that. Stiles just nods, because Deaton understands loss like Stiles does. Magic probably wouldn't have saved his mom, even if he knew about it, Stiles thinks. Magic couldn't stop Deucalion's descent into darkness, nor could it save the Hale family from being burned alive.

"Yes, I think you're beginning to see," Deaton says. "Maybe you're ready to try something a little more hands-on."

"Oh, thank goodness," Stiles breathes. "I thought this was all going to be Umbridge-era Dark Arts for a moment there."

Deaton narrows his eyes. "Or you can sit and read for the next hour instead," he says, heavily.

Stiles wrinkles his nose, mimes zipping his lips, and silently reaches out for the bag Deaton's offering him.

#

Scott flinches back from Stiles the moment he stumbles out of cleaning the cat room.

The nicest part of Stiles' new emissary training is that it coincides with Scott's work.

Theworst part is that Stiles tries for an hour to replicate this apparently mandatory druid skill of throwing one single handful of mountain ash into the air and having it form a perfect circle around him. It sounds pretty impossible, if Stiles is being honest, but he's nothing if not a trier.

He imagines it falling around him like a perfect circular fall of snow, but the only thing he manages to do is literally cover himself in the stuff.

He tries to wash himself off in Deaton's industrial sink, and actually bemoans that his snark made Deaton tidy away the death baths, because Stiles is pretty sure he's going to be excavating mountain ash from his body for the next fifty years.

Which leads to the _funniest_ part of Stiles' new emissary training:

Him becoming a Stiles-sized allergen to Scott.

"Ow," Scott whines as Stiles _accidentally_ pokes him in the elbow. "I know I can push through that stuff with my Alpha mojo but it _still hurts a little,_ Stiles."

"Yeah," Stiles says, viciously sulking, "like _teasing me about Derek Hale hurts me._ "

“But teasing you about Derek is fun,” Scott says.

“And poking _you_ is fun.”

Scott actually _whimpers_.

Stiles wags his fingers at him. "Don't think your puppy dog eyes have any sway over me.” Scott draws his eyebrows a bit higher and bats his eyelashes. “Oh my _god,_ fine! I'll stop poking you."

"You're the best," Scott says, grinning. It's hard to stay mad at Scott McCall when he grins. Stiles rubs his temples, probably just enmeshing the mountain ash more deeply into his skin.

"Well it's not you," Stiles says. "If you were the best you'd have borrowed your mom's car and we could go find out if Lydia's day off was werewolf-related or not."

"Have you tried just asking her?" Scott says, grabbing Stiles' phone from the table.

"Hey," Stiles says, " _use your own._ "

"I have yours now," Scott says, scrolling up on it. "And hey, there _aren't_ any sexts on here. I'm disappointed."

"It's because I delete all the texts your mom sends me," Stiles says, glaring at Scott.

Scott makes a sad, disgruntled sound, and sends a text off to Lydia asking where she is. "At least now you won't have mountain ash ingrained into your cellphone," Scott says. "You're _welcome_ ," he adds, and passes Stiles a mop.

"Ugh, my two hour allotment of time is over," Stiles says, taking the mop with a frown.

"Yeah," Scott says, "and you covered the floor with stuff I'm basically allergic to."

"Don't look at me," Deaton says placidly from where he's picking up his coat and car keys. "I'll see you boys tomorrow."

"See ya, boss," Scott says, loosely saluting Deaton. Stiles scowls at them both.

Despite the clean-up, it's still light when they leave the animal clinic, but it's not a nice sight that they leave the clinic to.

Namely Kyle McCall, leaning against the deep blue Toyota Sequoia with a New York registration that's probably department-issue, because assholes were probably automatically matched with asshole cars as a matter of FBI principle, and who even _needs_ a car like that in a city, anyway?

"Hello, boys," Kyle says, in that irritatingly calm voice that makes Stiles want to punch him in the face.

"Your father always has the classiest opening gambits," Stiles tells Scott companionably, as Scott sets the alarm and locks up the animal clinic, his back tense. "Do you think he practises them in front of the mirror?"

"He's usually too busy doing the _Taxi Driver_ routine," Scott says.

"Couple of comedians," Kyle sighs. "I saw the lights on and hoped that meant you'd still be on shift. I thought you might like to go grab a bite to eat from the diner on Maynard Street?" His gaze darts to Stiles. "You can bring your friend if you like."

"Thanks, but no thanks," Scott says, evenly, locking eyes with his father. "Mom's made meatloaf."

"An ice cream, then," Kyle says. "I'm sure it wouldn't spoil your appetite, growing boy like you—"

"Mom told me not to take food from strangers," Scott says, bristling.

"This is better than tennis," Stiles says. "Although if anyone starts grunting, I'm out of here."

"Look—" Kyle says.

"You want something," Scott interrupts, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're trying to butter me up by doing something which would have worked when I was five. I'm a teenager now. You can't just buy me fries and a shake every time you want something from me."

"Sometimes _I_ can be bought that cheaply," Stiles says. Scott gives him a glare. "Not the time?" Scott shakes his head. Stiles holds up his hands in surrender.

"Try honesty," Scott suggests. "Then we'll know where we stand with each other and we won't be operating on a foundation of lies."

Kyle's mouth stretches into an honest smile. "Time was I used to be the one taking _you_ to school." His smile falters. "There was a body found on Potter's Boulevard."

"Another one?" Stiles blurts, before he can remember they probably shouldn't know about any of the others.

"Yes," Kyle says, sparing Stiles a brief glance before looking back to Scott. "Your friend Lydia Martin was found on the scene. Can any of you kids think why?"

Scott's jaw goes a little slack, and Stiles fights the urge to tense up, because Kyle's already narrowing his eyes in suspicion as Scott's obvious tell that he maybe knows something.

It's a good thing Stiles is a little faster on his feet. Who needs planning when he can think on his feet, huh? "Which end of Potter's Boulevard?" Stiles asks. "The fro-yo end or the end with the antisocial bench which only has slats on the back?"

"Uh," Kyle says, and furrows his brow. "The end near the frozen yogurt store?"

"Wow," Stiles says. "You found the hottest girl in school near Macklebee's Nail and Hair Salon, and you're asking _us_ for her possible motivation for being in that vicinity."

Kyle shuffles his weight, clearly irked, and then he looks at Stiles directly. "A frequent customer of that establishment, are we?"

"I used to hang out there while my mom had her nails done," Stiles says, coolly holding Kyle's glare in his own. "Do you want to be a jerk about _that_?"

Kyle swallows, and looks away. They all remember a time when the McCall and Stilinski parents were friends by forced circumstances of their boys deciding to be inseparable. "You boys better go home," he says, after a long moment. "At least let me give you a ride to where you're going."

Scott nods distractedly, fiddling with his phone. "The hospital," Scott says. Stiles looks at him oddly, because this is new. "We promised mom I'd meet her there."

Kyle nods his head. "I can do that."

Kyle's car is not only stupid, it smells bad too; mostly down to the cloying air freshener he has hanging off the rearview mirror. It's possibly lavender, Stiles thinks, in a world where lavender mates with plastic and tar. Kyle makes Scott sit up front with him, and he edges a suspicious look at Stiles in the rearview mirror when Stiles pulls his phone out to text Scott, so Stiles can't figure out what Scott's up to that way. On a whim, because it would look suspicious, he thumbs to his text messages and opens up a blank one to HALES.

He stares at the blinking cursor for a moment as the road rumbles beneath them, the darkened streets of Beacon Hills blurring past the windows. _Kinda miss your stupid faces,_ he texts, and watches the cursor blink a few times; he's considering deleting it, because it's maudlin and stupid, but Kyle's asshole car thumps over a bump in the road and Stiles' thumb hits send.

Not for the first time, Stiles considers that whoever invents a device to recall accidentally-sent texts will be a _billionaire_ , but… he doesn't regret this one as much as he might.

Especially when his phone chimes a few minutes later.

 _IF ARGENT TEACHES YOU TO SHOOT WOLFSBANE BULLETS, PLEASE CONTINUE MISSING OUR FACES_ , the text from HALES reads.

Stiles can't help the bark of laughter; he swallows the laugh away instantly, and waves his phone apologetically. "Sorry," he says, and casts around for a viable-sounding lie. "Uh. Tumblr."

"Oh my god," Scott says, "didn't I stage a Tumblr intervention last year? Step away from the nightbloggers, Stiles. Step. Away."

"Is this English that you're speaking?" Kyle questions. "Because it doesn't sound like English."

"It's like a cult," Scott says. "But online."

"Nah, brah, that's World of Warcraft," Stiles says. "But I play that too."

Kyle’s sneer is clear in the rearview mirror, but Stiles can’t spare much too wrath for him; he’s too amused at Derek Hale cracking a joke to spare energy for anything else.

Of course, his smile doesn't last long, because Scott shows Stiles the screen of his phone after Kyle drops them off; Scott waves with one hand as Kyle drives off, leaving them on the hospital steps, and Stiles' smile falls.

 _Come to the hospital,_ the text reads, under a bar saying the text is from MOM. _I can get you in to see today's body_.

"Today's body," Stiles says aloud, swallowing. Scott's eyes are brimming with unshed tears; his empathy is one of his biggest strengths, and Stiles has always envied him for it.

"You've seen bodies before," Kate says in a sing-song voice, leaning against the wall. "You're a tough cookie, Stilinski. I think you'll manage at _least_ a few seconds before fainting. At _least_."

“I can handle this,” Stiles snaps at her.

"Of course you can,” Scott says. “You've seen bodies be—"

"Don't," Stiles says, and his voice sounds sharp and unnatural to his ears. Scott looks startled, and Stiles looks at him, feeling a little sick. "Part of the thing we're not talking about, okay?"

Scott nods, like he understands. "Sure."

They head into the hospital, the security guard in reception waving them through to the nurse's lounge; Melissa's the only one in there, hunched over a wilting salad from the hospital's bad cafeteria.

"Boys," she says, warmly, jerking her head at the spare seats. "Bob's dropping off the keycard in a few minutes, but you can wait here."

"Bob?" Scott says, his eyebrows waggling into question marks.

"Relax, he's married," Melissa says, rolling her eyes. "His wife's in my rotation and I'm trading my single shift for one of her doubles to get this favor, so I hope I don't have to remind you how much you owe me."

"Can't you just do your usual mojo thing to sneak us in?" Scott says, doing some complicated gesture with his hands which looks like he's trying to use sign language and relay some beautiful haiku about dying fish.

"My usual mojo thing does not work on the now-locked-and-FBI-sealed morgue," Melissa says, prodding her sad salad a little, her mouth downturned at the edge. "I should have called my favor in earlier to get some actually edible food."

"I can get you something from the vending machine," Stiles offers.

"Like _that's_ a good idea," Heather says, from the table behind them. Stiles spares a glance; she has her hands around her knees. She looks so real and so _alive._ He's going to need _so much therapy_ if he survives Beacon Hills past his adolescence.

"No, I'm fine. I'm an adult. I need to live with my dodgy life choices," Melissa says, stabbing a plastic fork into a pile of wilted lettuce leaves. They all wince in unison, and she lowers the fork and pushes the plate of food away, half-eaten. "At least we only have a little longer to wait," she says. "I thought you boys would be walking from the clinic?"

"Nah," Scott says, punching something into his phone. "Dad insisted on giving us a lift."

"He drives like a ninety year old," Stiles offers. He's always going to be staunchly loyal to Melissa, and not just because she was the only McCall not to avoid coming to the hospital to see his mom while she was ill.

Melissa offers Stiles a small nod in thanks, always grateful for the defence. "Sometimes I think I should be paying rent on this room," she says, tapping fingers against the cheap plastic surface of the table.

"I used to think this room was your secret lair," Stiles says, sinking back and looking up at the patchy paint on the ceiling. "I used to sneak in here all the time."

"Yeah," Melissa says, expression fond with remembrance, "because the candystripers changed in here sometimes, and you were in love with _all_ of them."

"Not _all_ of them," Stiles instantly defends, as Scott smirks at him. "Just most of them."

"All of them," Melissa corrects, nodding at Scott. "Especially the one assigned to—" She swallows the end of the sentence up, and edges a suddenly nervous look at Stiles.

She's gauging his reaction. "Assigned to my mom," Stiles finishes, proud of himself for his voice only squeaking once. "She was nice."

"She was beautiful," Melissa says in a fake-confidential voice to Scott, "hair down to here, smile out to here—"

"He has a type," Scott agrees.

" _He_ has a name," Stiles bitches automatically.

"Attractive and unattainable," Scott continues.

"I'm trying to remember the girl's name," Melissa says, scrunching her nose up a little. "She stayed at the hospital for a couple of years before some sort of family tragedy. Lauren, maybe?"

And oh god, Stiles remembers now – the girl with the gorgeous smile who used to take his mom's hand when it was hurting too much.

Laura. _Laura._ It's a total blast from his past, a period he's tried for most of his life to wipe out of his head because of how much it all still _hurts_ , but yeah, he remembers her now.

Laura Hale. A beautiful girl with long hair and a brilliant smile and Stiles' breath stills in his throat, because he had such a ridiculous crush on her, and her wicked laugh, and he was only eight and she was _perfect_ and Stiles has seen her dead body.

Half of it.

"I guess that was before your Lydia phase," Scott says, noticing Stiles' peaked expression, and correctly interpreting it as him freaking out, even if he has no idea on the specifics of said freak-out. "It feels so weird to me that there _was_ a pre-Lydia period in your life."

"There was a pre-Scott period too," Stiles says. He's having difficulty speaking, really, but the more words he pushes out, the better it feels. Laura Hale. How could he not remember that? _You didn't want to._ "That's not so difficult for me to remember."

Scott scowls, and they all jump as the door pushes open.

"If that's Bob, I quit," Stiles says, pointing at the girl pushing the door closed behind her.

"I could pretend to be Bob for you," Lydia says, "but you couldn't afford my fees." She brushes imaginary lint from the front of her bright-blue flared trench coat, before walking over and primly taking a seat next to Stiles. "Thanks for the head's up."

"I didn't give you any head's up," Stiles says, confused.

"I did," Scott says, waving his phone.

"His dad basically accused me outright of murder," Lydia tells Stiles. "I think I'm entitled to see how I possibly could have done it. You know. Seeing as how I'm _kind of the last to know about all the other important stuff around here._ " She glares at him.

Stiles winces. Yeah, the ghost thing. And the kanima thing. And the werewolf thing.

"I really should remember the girl's name," Melissa says, trying again to eat some of the decaying salad. "Losing my mind in my old age."

"You're not old, mom," Scott says, automatically.

"Aw, my little brain-washed hero," Melissa says, reaching over and ruffling his hair; Scott ducks away, but not far enough to escape her fingers.

"What girl are we talking about?" Lydia says.

"Stiles used to crush helplessly on the hospital candystripers when he was a kid," Scott tells her. "Especially on one of them. But mom can't remember her name."

"I _should,_ " Melissa insists. "Especially since she was one of Derek Hale's sisters." Stiles' stomach goes cold, and he mentally wills her to be quiet, but life isn't kind. Melissa tilts her head. "Does that mean she was a werewolf too?"

Stiles remembers Laura holding his mom's wrist, careful, gingerly. His mom always slept better after Laura came by. _Werewolf,_ his thoughts point out. _Laura took your mom's pain._ His gut hurts, and his fingers fumble for his phone, and then drop it, because what could he even say to Cora and Derek? I knew your sister, and she used to help make nights bearable for my mom? No, Stiles can't do that. He knows better than most that digging up the past doesn't do anyone an inch of good.

" _Laura_?" Scott barks out a laugh, unaware of Stiles' mental spiral into grief. "Dude, you had a crush on _Laura Hale._ "

Stiles freezes, because it wasn't meant to be said out loud.

"Laura," Melissa says. "That was it. _Laura._ "

Heather smiles at him sadly from over Lydia's shoulder.

One more dead childhood sweetheart. And Stiles thought he was out of those. The mental image of Lydia joining that parade washes through him, and he flinches, looking down. His hands tremble into fists. He's _not_ going to let that happen. Not on his watch. He's not quite sure how he's going to _manage_ that, but… He's going to _try_.

"Well," Lydia says, "it explains your thing for Cora, anyway."

Stiles' head lurches up. "My thing for _who_ now?"

"Cora?" Melissa questions.

"I do not have a thing for _Cora Hale,_ " Stiles says, weakly, even though it's pretty much a lie, because he's spent more than a few days hanging out with her thinking about how kissing her would feel. His _life._ It's a constant parade of agony and misery and _terribly unfair teasing,_ because he never told anyone _but_ an unconscious Cora about that.

Scott points at his chest. "Your heart skipped a beat."

" _Fine,_ " Stiles says. "But you can't judge me for it. Cora's gorgeous and I don't think _any_ of you would say no if she wanted to kiss you."

"I might," Melissa says, but both Scott and Lydia look a little contrite.

"I'd be too _scared_ to say no to her," Scott says.

Stiles frowns. "But you're an _Alpha_ now."

"Right, positions of power and responsibility mean you become one hundred percent fearless," Scott says, the sarcasm thick. "I completely forgot that little fact."

"Well, at least it's final proof on his Hale thing," Lydia says, idly inspecting her nails.

"My Hale thing?!" Stiles says, a little wildly.

"You totally have a thing for Hales!" Scott's eyes brighten, and he turns to Stiles, vibrating a little with excitement, and oh my _god,_ this is a thing that Stiles is going to be teased about _forever._

Stiles scowls down at his phone, and quickly types, "I'm about to die, probably. Tell Cora she can have my iTunes collection." He sends it to HALES and scowls down at the name like it's to blame for all his woes.

"What's that thing you say?" Lydia says, tilting her head. "Once is an incidence, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern?"

Scott starts laughing, and he muffles the sound in his hands.

"Laura and Cora is two," Stiles says.

"And Derek makes three _,_ " Lydia says triumphantly, holding up three fingers, wiggling two of them to make Stiles know she's mentally only holding the middle one up.

"But—" Stiles says, spluttering and looking helplessly between the three other occupants of the room. He eyeballs their shaking shoulders viciously.

"You did say last week at dinner that he was naked in your room," Melissa says, helpfully.

"I used to like you!" Stiles says, pointing accusingly at Melissa.

"I'm sure I'll survive the loss of your affection," Melissa tells him, unruffled.

"I hate you _all,_ " Stiles moans, and buries his head in his hands. "And I will kill the first person who mentions Peter, I swear to _god_."

Scott just bursts out laughing; apparently he hadn't even considered the other Hale in town.

"Can't we just kill Peter?" Lydia asks.

"You already got him arrested," Scott says.

"You did?" Melissa questions. Lydia nods. "I like this one," Melissa tells Scott. "You can keep her."

Lydia preens.

Bob comes in then, not a moment too soon (and several moments too late, in Stiles' opinion), and it's hard to keep laughing; the light atmosphere suddenly goes leaden, and they exchange weighty glances for the next few minutes when Bob advises them to wait fifteen minutes before going in, and it's a solemn procession to the morgue as they duck their faces from the hospital security cameras, just in case.

"All right," Lydia says, as Melissa slides the key card through the door, ushers them in and then uses a clipboard to keep the door just slightly ajar, "let's see how I'm supposed to have killed someone."

Melissa takes the lead, fearlessly lifting the corner of the sheets and reading the toe tags, and she beckons them over.

"Apparently," Melissa says, "you did it with your razor-sharp manicure," and she flips over the sheet so they can all see the body.

It's a young man, and Stiles hates the way he feels _glad_ that he doesn't recognize him; Scott and Lydia's expressions are equally blank, and they mustn't know him either.

"I'd never chip the polish," Lydia says, staring down at her immaculately done nails, the same shade of blue as her coat.

"It's funny how the whole white and stainless steel morgue color scheme kinda washes a person out," Heather says, pulling herself up to sit next to the dead body. Stiles steadfastly looks down at the corpse; the jagged lines across the throat where claws have ripped it open, and the bloodied mark on the forehead. He gets out his phone, willing his fingers to stay still, and Scott's fingers close over his; he edges his best friend a thankful look, and between them they take a good picture of the mark on the guy's forehead.

It looks like a rough triangle with three too-long sides. Almost like someone was trying to scratch an A in his skin. _Alpha,_ Stiles thinks, but it's not the same mark that the Alpha pack left on the Hale house.

"Your dad said something about the bodies all having the same mark," Melissa says. "All on the forehead."

"I'll—" Stiles says, eloquently, meaning _forward it to everyone,_ but gesturing with his phone instead of saying the words.

Scott nods, because they've never needed to finish their sentences with each other.

"I only saw him from behind on-scene," Lydia says, her voice a little hollow. "All I knew was that I had to get outside of the salon, because I wanted some fresh air, and—"

"We should go," Stiles says, and turns towards the door.

"Too late," Scott says, his head tilting in that way it does when he's using his werewolf powers. "Dad's just turned onto this corridor." He whirls to his mom. "He's coming here with one of his deputies."

"I don't suppose there's a convenient way out of here," Lydia says.

"Not without getting me fired," Melissa says, and it's credit to how amazing she is that she only falters a second. Her shoulders square. "It's better me than you—"

"It's better none of us," Scott says, before Stiles can propose maybe trying the ceiling tiles. Scott lifts up the sheet to show each of the tables have a lower platform, covered by the white sheets.

Lydia stares forlornly. "On a slab in the morgue and I'm only seventeen. I knew Beacon Hill's abysmal age-specific mortality rate would get me one day."

"Hurry," Scott urges, and Stiles hurries over to the farthest table, rolling under and letting the sheet drop down, trusting that his friends are doing the same thing. He just about rights himself onto his back when the door opens.

"What are you doing here?" Kyle asks. His voice is muffled through the sheet but still very distinctive. There's a sound of shifting.

"It's called my job," Melissa says, and the sound of clinking glasses. "When your department roped off our _only morgue,_ you forgot to remove some of our fundamental equipment. Robert Brad has my use of the entry card logged. You can call and verify if you need to, but I'm pretty sure on-call nurse needing catheter tubing didn't register on the _must inform the FBI_ list."

"I'm—" Kyle starts, and there's the sound of shuffling. Melissa McCall can deliver a smackdown for sure; Stiles has been on the receiving end of one or two before, like the time he convinced Scott to put citric acid, soap and baking soda in all the toilet tanks in the sheriff department so that when the deputies flushed they received a foamy surprise. "Devin. Brant. Proceed with the pictures."

Stiles can see the shadow of feet moving, and light flashes through a few times; they're taking more pictures of the bodies, which is odd. Surely the crime scene photos would be detailed enough?

"I'll make sure we message your department and ask permission in future," Melissa says. "Seeing as every tiny step needs to be documented. You're worse than Stiles in that regard. Like that time he insisted we install fire emergency protocol folders in the house?"

"That kid's a bad influence on Scott," Kyle says, and Stiles' face flushes. "I think of what Claudia would say if she heard some of the things he says, some of the things he gets up to—"

Stiles' stomach tightens, and his eyes feel hot, and that just makes him unbelievably angry, because what right does a shithead like Kyle McCall have to say things like that? His hands bunch up into fists, and he has to dig his nails into his palms to stop himself from rolling out of there and just punching him in his stupid face.

"Kyle," Melissa says, sounding tired.

"You know as well as me that she would roll in her grave," Kyle says, "she would—"

He's cut off then, but it's not a welcome break – because he's stopped by Stiles' phone beeping.

 _Shit._ Stiles fumbles for it, thumbing it into silent mode like he should have immediately, and he holds his breath as footsteps come closer. Kyle's going to lift up the sheet and find him there, and – hell, Stiles will already be in trouble by that point. Stiles is going to smash his fist into Kyle's face and keep going as long as he can before Kyle's FBI buddies pull him off.

Maybe he can even take a leaf from the Hales and tear Kyle's throat out with his _teeth._

And woah, that's a violent thought, and Stiles' heart is beating rapidly, adrenaline coursing through his veins. His whole body feels more alive than it has since the night Scott became Alpha.

Kyle's progress is halted, though.

"You don't have any right to say her name," Melissa hisses; she's trying to distract him. Scott's mom is the best person in the universe. If Stiles gets out of this morgue intact, he's going to tell her a thousand times. "We were supposed to be their _friends._ And John gets drunk _one time_ in public and you hauled him into the cells and tried to get him fifty-one-fifty'd? In front of his _colleagues_? His _wife_ died, Kyle. People get pretty fucking cut up over stuff like that. _Normal_ people, anyway."

She's dredging up painful history, but it isn't enough to wipe out his gratitude for her. If this works, she's still a legend.

Stiles' breath is uneven, though. These memories _hurt_. There's a reason Stiles' shtick is humor.

It's not always everyone else he's trying to distract and divert from real feelings.

"My actions are _always_ concerned with the wellbeing of the public. And of minors over which I have a moral responsibility," Kyle says, thankfully falling for Melissa's baiting to focus on her and not the errant text message beep. "If Stilinski acted like he did that night in front of his child—"

"And what about how _your own damn brother_ treated _your_ child," Melissa hisses. Stiles has heard werewolves howl, and she's scarier, hands down. "Or is it only _every other damn kid but your own_ that you give a shit about."

"That's not true," Kyle argues, immediately.

"This is why our marriage failed," Melissa says, fury roughening her voice. "Not Harold. Scott and I fought past that, even though it nearly broke us on its own. Our marriage failed because of your complete inability to pay attention to your own family. There's always something more damn important."

There's a clattering, and the sound of the door slamming.

"God _dammit,_ " Kyle curses, and then a thump, and then an exhale. "Sorry about that, gentlemen."

"Ex-wives, man," one of the two guys with him says. "What can you do?"

"I wonder if I count as an ex-wife," Victoria Argent says, making Stiles jolt in shock; she's sticking half-way through Stiles' sheet, and he has to clamp his hand over his mouth to stop from crying out. His bones ache. All this shock is _exhausting_. "Kyle McCall's an attractive man. I can see where Scott gets his rugged good looks from. It's a pity he inherited that off-balance jaw."

 _You're off-balance,_ Stiles thinks, and he narrows his eyes at her as best as he can in the gloom.

"I bet people always told _you_ that you would grow into your looks," Victoria adds, eyes sweeping down his body. "Eh. People can be wrong."

Stiles opens his mouth to protest that some people in the past have _quite liked_ his appearance, thank you very much. Or at least not being overtly repulsed by it. Then he remembers the FBI guys are still in the room, he's hiding under a corpse, and the two girls who'd ever professed any sort of _like_ for him are _dead_.

"C'mon, let's go," one of the men says, and Stiles counts footsteps as they click off the light and exit the room.

He rolls out, and nearly bumps into Scott – he can't help the giggle – and he uses his cell as a flashlight to catch a glimpse of Scott's grinning face at their near collision. It's not the first time the Stiles and Scott Show have been nearly caught doing something dubiously illegal.

The light floods on, and Stiles squints up from his position still half-crouched to see Lydia with her hand on the light switch, tapping a foot impatiently. "I'm glad you found hiding under a corpse hilarious, boys, but we've got a problem," she says. "The door's locked. We need the keycard to get out."

Stiles looks across – the door has keycard access on _both_ sides. Huh. Melissa had propped the door open before, but the clipboard is gone.

"Shit," Scott says, peering up at the ceiling. "Maybe I can get a ceiling tile loose."

"Not with your big werewolf punching, you're not," Lydia says, sniffing. "I was already found at one crime scene, I'd rather not add _more_ probable cause to your freaky father's file on me."

"Fathers are useless," Victoria agrees. She's sitting on the edge of one of the stainless steel examining tables, her ankles crossed delicately, an expression like a shark on her perfect elfin face. "It's mothers that know best."

Stiles couldn't remember hearing Melissa swipe the card. He knows her; she wouldn't leave them stranded in there if she had a choice… Then again, maybe he doesn't know her. She totally badmouthed him first before Kyle had a chance to, and Melissa McCall's not _like_ that. She's good people.

What was it she said about him?

"Dude," Stiles breathes, and looks up to where Lydia seems to be helping Scott balanced on a wheeled table. "Your mom left us the key card."

Scott looks down, frowning. "She did? Where?"

"She told us," Stiles says. _"Like that time the Stilinski kid insisted we install fire emergency protocol folders in the house?”_

Lydia and Scott look at him blankly, until realization dawns on both of their faces. Stiles glances around, finds the fire emergency protocol binder that is displayed in every room in the hospital, and puts his hand in the small wall sconce that the binder's displayed in. He pulls out the key card and strikes a pose of success.

"A clue in her _words_ ," Scott says. "I hate that my mom knows about all of this, but _man,_ sometimes she rocks this supernatural detective stuff out of the ballpark."

"Unlike _some_ people who leave their cellphones on when we're trying to be stealthy," Lydia says, eyeballing Stiles.

Stiles pulls his arms down out of the air and stops posing. He pulls a face, and then fumbles for his phone. Of _course_ the sender is HALES: only Derek could get them in trouble long distance. There's a smile threatening in his cheeks, but the weird impulse dies when he opens the message and reads the contents.

"It's from Derek," Stiles says, looking at the all-caps message with a hint of what feels like exasperated fondness. "It's an old mark." He looks up at Scott and Lydia, his face more somber than even their morbid surroundings dictate. "It's a mark that a wannabe-Alpha stuck in Beta or Omega form leaves to claim its kill. This screams Peter Hale to everyone else, right?"

"We've got something to deal with that might even be worse than that," Scott says, having retrieved his own phone from his pocket. His eyebrows are furrowed.

"Worse than Peter Hale?" Stiles asks. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," Scott says, and his expression is so grimly serious that Stiles almost drops his phone and the key card when he lowers his hands to focus on his friend. "Danny cracked the password on the Mac. He's sent through some of the pictures, but—From what he's saying, it's the tip of the iceberg."

Stiles frowns. Lydia pulls out her phone, scowling prettily at it. "Yeah, he's linked me to them too," she says, and then her expression slackens, and her face doesn't even look pretty for a long few seconds, which is _freaky._ She schools herself after a moment, her jaw tightening, replacing with fear. Lucky for Lydia Martin, fear brings her right into the _freakishly attractive_ zone again.

Stiles' phone doesn't handle graphics as well as his friend's phones do, so he can only stand there, feeling suddenly vulnerable. It's a sharp shock, going from the elation of finding the key card to the uncomfortable situation of being the person who knows _nothing_.

"Guys, c'mon," Stiles says, desperately, looking between them both. "What is it?"

Lydia wrinkles her mouth, and instinctively looks towards Scott, because, Alpha or not, he’s always been their de facto leader.

"The pictures Jennifer had on her computer," Scott says, and looks at Stiles with a strained expression. "They're all of you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_“We live in the flicker — may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday.”_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

The pictures aren't all of Stiles.

But a _lot_ of them are.

It doesn't hit him until they're safely out of the hospital.

Melissa meets them by the exit, deviating to get the keycard back to Bob, and after Scott fills her in on the situation she goes to call Stiles' dad, while Lydia drives Scott and Stiles to the Stilinski household.

Allison, Isaac and the twins are waiting for them on the doorstop, Allison and Isaac looking troubled, Ethan and Aiden looking relatively disgruntled at being dragged along. Then again, Stiles suspects Aiden doesn't like _any_ problems he can't simply punch into submission, and if Aiden's disgruntled, Ethan won't be far behind.

His dad pulls up in the cruiser, blues on full, just as Stiles manages to unlock the door and let them in, and it's all a bit of a blur for Stiles as they bundle into the small house. Allison co-opts the dining room table to display print-outs of the photographs, and Stiles looks down at them dully, his head filling with white noise.

Jennifer had been _watching_ him. For so long. There are pictures from a year ago in the pile. Long distance ones which could have easily been taken by a good enough camera, some which are clearly screen-captures of CCTV footage, but then there are also some _impossible_ ones. Pictures where Stiles was the only one in a room. Rooms where there were no cameras. _Impossible_ angles.

The impossible photos are blurry, like someone's used a digital camera to take a picture of a TV screen.

The photos that aren't purely Stiles are usually ones of him with Derek – in his room, in the swimming pool, poring over maps in the loft – but there are pictures of all of them. Lydia sitting with Stiles at the ice rink. Stiles almost shooting Scott in the face with Allison's crossbow. Erica knocking Stiles out with part of his own car.

"I'm sorry," Dad says. "I'm really sorry if I'm interrupting your play at being Sherlock Holmes or the Scooby Gang or—This is it, Stiles. You have to understand this is where, as your parent, I draw the line. No more information about the deaths. I mean it."

Stiles looks over at his dad, too startled to really argue. "Wait—" he says, and then frowns faintly. "We'll negotiate it later."

Dad snorts, and shakes his head. He looks a decade older, and Stiles' heart clenches guiltily.

Scott moves forwards and holds up three of the ones where Stiles is looking over maps with Derek. "Dude, when were these taken? I don't remember this."

Stiles, feeling fuzzy, shakes his head a little like it might wake him from the heavy stupor that's sliding around his brain. "Um," he says, "the summer. This last summer. I was helping Derek and Isaac try to find Erica and Boyd and see whether the Al—"

Isaac's shaking his head frantically a little, and Stiles frowns at him as he trails off.

"Wait," Scott says, "so you _knew_ about the Alpha pack? All along? But—How did you— _Why_ didn't you tell me?"

Oh. Isaac was warning him about Scott.

 _Whatever._ Scott should have asked about his summer before now. Stiles opens his mouth to respond, and shuts it tiredly instead for a moment. He shrugs, his eyes tracking over the pictures. He can even see another impossible picture, of the moment Scott _did_ find out about the Alpha mark on the Hale house; he'd looked a little guilty, but Scott hadn't turned around to see that expression.

Stiles had actually been the one to paint over the Alpha mark. He _knew_ he should have mixed wolfsbane into the paint as a deterrent, but Derek had (probably rightly) pointed out that humans weren't immune to the stuff either, and Stiles would likely get covered in it at some point (also right, but only because Isaac accidentally elbowed him in his rush to get away from a particularly creepy Peter moment.)

"We've got bigger things to worry about right now," Dad says sharply. "We have more important questions. Like where did these pictures come from?"

"We might sort of have possession of Jennifer Blake's laptop?" Scott says, scratching the back of his neck and employing his best puppy dog eyes expression.

It hasn't worked the way Scott's wanted it to since fourth grade; Dad just looks resigned, and shakes his head like this is par for the course in Scott and Stiles ridiculousness.

"Danny said they must have been taken by hidden cameras," Isaac says. "He thought we could use the pictures to figure out the angles of them; see if any of the cameras are still around." He looks around at them all, eyebrows drawn close together.

"Why would she even—" Dad starts, looking to Stiles for the answer, and Stiles shakes his head at his dad, overwhelmed. He has no idea. "That woman is lucky she's already dead," his dad finishes grimly, somewhat under his breath.

"I've kind of got a theory," Allison says, and pulls the book out that Stiles allocated her to look at."I've been starting to translate Ms. Blake's book, and I think it's a diary."

"Do I want to know where you got _that_?" Dad asks, running one hand over his face, his wedding ring glinting in the artificial light. Stiles tracks the reflection of it with his eyes, and pushes down the ever-recurring leaden weight of guilt sliding down his spine. _You killed her._

"Ms. Blake gave it to us," Lydia says, pretending to sound off-hand, but she's shuffling the pictures around, as if looking for something in particular. "Try and prove otherwise."

"None of it made sense," Allison says, "until I saw the photos. There's a large section on where she was figuring out the sacrifices. She had five specific categories."

"Virgins, healers, philosophers, warriors and guardians," Isaac says.

"Each of them was for a reason. They gave Jennifer – Julia – a certain power. For example, killing the three doctors gave her the power to heal," Allison says.

"I shot her," Dad says, "point blank and the bullet dropped out and the hole closed back up. You've never seen anything like it."

Scott, Isaac, Ethan and Aiden exchange amused smirks for a moment, and Dad squints, sighs, and resumes pawing through the photos instead of responding.

"So the warriors gave her fighting skills," Scott surmises. "The philosophers increased her intelligence?"

"And the guardian sacrifices would have protected her," Allison says, nodding, "but she ended up using Derek for that."

"So the virgins—" Lydia prompts.

"Her face," Allison says. "And in part, her seductive powers."

Dad grimaces for a second, but remains silent. Stiles _really_ doesn't want to know.

"So killing the virgins was all for her to seduce Derek into being a guardian until she could get to the last sacrifices," Lydia extrapolates. She looks around at them, her eyes darting between them all. "When she tried to strangle me, she went on about the sacrifices being a necessary evil."

"There's definitely a page where she worries about the cost of the sacrifices on her soul," Allison says, flicking through the journal and angling it up to Scott, who nods thoughtfully at the page. "An Alpha werewolf was the back-up she wanted, should all else fail. And seduction seems to have been her plan."

Dad looks at her flatly. "How does this relate to my _son_?"

Allison takes a deep breath, and she flickers a look towards Stiles, an almost apologetic expression on her face as she turns the diary to one last page at the end, a page in English.

In steady capital letters, it reads BE LIKE HIM.

"I don't—" Stiles says, meaning to say _I don't understand,_ but he does. He suddenly does. His legs feel weak, and suddenly his palms feel rough – they're flat against the carpet of the floor. His head pounds through his ears.

BE LIKE HIM. BE LIKE _HIM._

Ms. Blake had been endearingly clumsy, easily excitable, ready to ramble at a moment's notice. Derek had saved her life. And she saved his in return after the fall in the mall. Stiles wonders with a burn in his throat how that exchange had happened. Timing-wise it was a couple of hours after school. Ms. Blake would have been headed out to the parking lot; Derek probably walked in front of her car and collapsed, just like that time with Scott, Stiles and the wolfsbane bullet.

She learned about werewolves and she didn't run.

He can see why she would have used him as an insinuation model to worm her way into Derek Hale's life. Stiles had started off at a point of hate and fear, and _he'd_ managed to slide himself into Derek's life regardless.

"Get up," Victoria Argent hisses at him, and Stiles shakes his head. Scott's next to him, one hand on his elbow, a worried tone threaded through words that Stiles can't hear properly through the dull ringing in his ears.

Derek's whole romantic history was a train wreck, a terrible horrible _mess_ : Paige was a tragedy, and Kate was a _psychopath_ , and once is a coincidence, twice was a pattern, and Jennifer made three, and she's Stiles' fault?

" _Breathe,_ in and out, _calmly,_ " Victoria snaps. "Don't be a coward and get to your _damned feet._ "

Damned. Yes. That sounds just about right.

"Snap out of it," Victoria barks at him. "Get to your feet and look at the photos. You can use the photographs to find the lodestones."

"The lodestones?" Stiles breathes, and in his surprise, he lets Scott hoist him up to his feet, stupid werewolf super strength jarring his shoulder, but he doesn't even linger on that. Stiles hadn't even noticed that his dad had come over too, but it makes sense, even through Stiles' foggy brain.

Ethan says, "Yeah, lodestones. That would do it." He gives Stiles an impressed look. "Deaton got around to teaching you about them already?"

"Lodestones?" Scott asks, turning to Stiles.

"Uh," Stiles says, because how do you say _a ghost gave me the answer_ without sounding completely off your rocker. Then again, he does remember seeing the words in one of the books Deaton gave him, but he can't quite remember the words, so maybe the ghosts were pulling on his subconscious knowledge, which Stiles can't exactly access at will. "Well—"

"They're magically-spelled stones," Aiden says. "They work like three hundred and sixty degree webcams, really, and can store images of what's happening around them for _weeks._ Usually they connect to a central lodestone…"

"And then you just... what?” Isaac’s expression turns smug. “Hook a printer up to it?”

"Yes," Ethan says. Isaac's expression droops in surprise, but Ethan rolls his eyes. "Of _course_ you can't hook up a printer to a _magical artefact,_ dumbass. And you can't use a digital camcorder or camera."

"No digital," Scott says, thumbing the edge of one of the photos thoughtfully, "but analogue?"

"That would do it," Aiden says. "I don't suppose there was an old-style film camera in amongst the stuff that she—" He glances at the sheriff warily. "— _gave_ to us?"

Stiles shakes his head.

"Then the equipment she had will be in the hands of the FBI," Ethan says. "I doubt she remembered to remove the last film from it before she kicked it."

"Which means the FBI might have a camera in their possession with photos of my son on it," Dad says, his voice rough with worry.

"And my dad hates you," Scott says.

"You always brighten my day, buddy," Stiles tells Scott.

Scott wrinkles his nose. "Meaning he'll probably do something stupid like accuse you of killing her."

"Awesome," Stiles says.

"He won't," Dad says, firmly. "I won't let him."

"This central lodestone," Allison asks. "What does it look like?" She pulls out her phone. "Anything like these?"

Stiles presumes she's showing the twins the pictures he took of the stuff they liberated from Jennifer's apartment. He looks down at the photos on the table, his stomach churning. There's even a picture of Derek from the now infamous Miguel incident, Derek scowling down at the dictionary in his hands like it's personally offended him.

"That," Aiden says, and Allison spins around her cellphone to show a large, grey sphere.

"That's in my section of stuff," Stiles says.

"Where—" Scott starts.

"Upstairs, in the bottom of my closet," Stiles says, because Scott's his bro and he doesn't have to finish his sentences ever.

"I can do that," Lydia says. "I've been wanting an excuse to get in your closet and throw out that ridiculous _dicknose_ t-shirt since last spring.”

She whirls off before anyone can stop her.

"I _like_ that t-shirt," Stiles says, but no one else defends its excellence, so he falls quiet and tries not to obsess over how Allison and his dad are successfully sorting the photos into locations and times.

"Did you just willingly let a girl go rummage in your closet?" Aiden asks, frowning across at Stiles. "Don’t you have any, uh—" He side-eyes the sheriff warily. "—stuff to hide?"

"Of _course_ not," Stiles says loudly, while his dad just huffs a snort of major disbelief. "And I've never understood why people even _horde_ porn. Why? When you can go online and—"

His dad looks up from the photos.

"—spend all your time on LOLcats," Stiles finishes. "Not browsing an infinite supply of inventive free videos sorted by handy categories in incognito browser windows at _all_. Nope."

His dad just sighs, loudly.

"I'll brave the awkward question," Stiles says. "Are we—Y'know—" He gestures at the photos, and doesn't know how to phrase it. "Nope, I'm too scared to contemplate—"

Allison pulls an instant face. "We already kind of sent copies to Derek if that's what you're wondering?"

Stiles looks at her in surprise – both for the response, and for the fact that she understood what he couldn't say. "How did you—"

"Danny," Allison says. "He hacked your email."

"You," Stiles says, squinting and pointing a finger at her, "are either psychic or you've spent too much time with me."

"Lydia will feel better knowing you go around accusing _everyone_ of being psychic," Aiden says.

Stiles squints. "I liked you better when you were just like a fart." Aiden looks confused. "Silent and deadly?"

"You _liked_ it when he was deadly?" Ethan asks, blinking.

"Hey, I'm still—I'm still _totally_ deadly," Aiden protests. "I could—"

"Please continue. Deaton owes me a favor; I'm sure my _current_ occasionally-hirsute guest courtesy of the FBI wouldn't mind a roommate, should you happen to… need a vacation courtesy of the law," Dad says, referencing Peter's current incarceration. He glares at them pointedly. Aiden sags, and Ethan pats his shoulder in commiseration.

There's silence. Normally Stiles would have broken it with something funny, he guesses, but nothing feels normal about this situation.

Scott's the one to break the silence with something funny. Well. It's not so much _funny_ as _Stiles possibly being in a ton of even more trouble_ , but Stiles' idea of the definition of things has always been a little bit wrong.

"When was _this_ one taken?" Scott asks, holding up one of Stiles bloodied and beaten, and Erica and Boyd hanging in the background.

Dad looks at Stiles sharply, an even more alarmed look on his face.

"Oh," Stiles says, to give himself time to think. "Hey. Remember when I said the rival lacrosse team beat me up? Y'know. That time we thought Jackson had stabbed himself?"

"I remember," Dad says, heavily, in a tone which means Stiles should be expecting a shitload of groundings in his near future.

"Well—I couldn't find a graceful way of saying that a septuagenarian kidnapped me to beat me up to send a message to my werewolf pals," Stiles says. "So. I didn't say anything?"

"Gerard did that?" Allison asks, her voice trembling; she takes the photo and traces Stiles' bloodied eye with one finger. "I—"

"Your dad rescued us," Stiles hurries to reassure her. "And it was just a punch to the face. I've been through _much_ worse since this supernatural stuff started—" Stiles catches a glimpse of his father's increasingly horrified expression, and he winces. "We should totally finish dividing these up so we can find the lodestones and stop me from inserting my foot any further into my mouth than it already is."

"This pile are all in your room, two different angles," Dad says. "Let's go up and find Lydia and see if the lodestone theory pans out. Before we sort out the ghost thing."

"Oh," Stiles says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Scott looks guilty. No prizes for guessing who let the Sheriff in on _that_ particular secret.

"And, of course, the other matter," Dad says.

"The other matter?" Stiles tries to look innocent, but his dad holds up a picture of… Derek shirtless in his room.

"The case of you being grounded until you're eighty five," Dad says.

" _Funny story_ about that incident," Stiles says, "it's—"

"—accompanied by a date stamp in the filename which says it was _while Mr. Hale was a wanted fugitive._ "

" _Funny story,_ " Stiles says again, weakly. He gives Scott a desperate look as his dad kindly shoves him towards the stairs, but Scott's about as much help as bringing claws to a gunfight.

#

It's not as painful a telling off as Stiles is expecting, if he ignores the pile of seven shirts that Lydia "conveniently" wrapped the three lodestones from his room in for protection.

Mostly his dad gets about three sentences into a rant about being honest, and then he's crushing Stiles to him in a hug where neither of them can breathe, and there might be some leaking from the face going on from both sides which neither of them will admit are tears but which make Lydia's face crease prettily in approval, and then the output of emotion make his dad pull himself into brisk business mode, and he hurtles back downstairs to start giving out orders.

Stiles sinks down onto his bed wearily, and when he looks up, he's startled to see Scott there. He nods at his bro, intending to be as stoic as possible, but Scott and he have been friends since kindergarten and the epic sandbox play date of epicness, and Scott knows two things implicitly:

One, he knows they need less stupid names for the monumental events in their lives.

Two, he knows when Stiles is pretending not to need anyone, that is probably the time he needs someone the most.

Scott crosses the room and just wraps his arms around Stiles, giving one of his stupidly addictive hugs, and he doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. He just grips onto Stiles, a weight that's more familiar to him than his own, a pattern of breathing and movements that Stiles knows better than anyone else in the world. Stiles buries his nose in the fabric of Scott's shirt. Melissa's not like the Stilinskis, who buy whatever cleaning stuff is the cheapest: she's consistent in what she buys, and it's more reassuring than it probably should be that both of them have been through _hell,_ and Scott is a werewolf, and they'd both _died_ for sixteen hours, but… Scott still smells the same.

"You'll be okay," Scott tells him, tugging him down onto the bed, and they break apart in practiced unison to stare at Stiles' ceiling. Stiles stares upwards, taking in the dent where Scott smacked a hockey puck off the wall and it ricocheted so hard it somehow left the wall unscathed but left a permanent hole in the ceiling, and the sad trail of yellow where they'd both tried shaking punctured glow sticks to see what would happen.

"Yeah?" Stiles turns his head, and Scott's already staring at him, and Stiles feels something inside of him relax. Even though Scott's going through his own hell – goodness knows that Stiles wouldn't be able to handle seeing Harold McCall again – he still has time for _him._

"Of course," Scott says, and he grins, that infuriatingly charming wide grin which makes Stiles' face copy him without hesitation, the grin which makes being his friend feel like the best thing in the universe. "We're always okay."

"Only because he doesn't know," a voice says, and of course it's another ghost, of _course_ it is, and this one Stiles doesn't have to look around to identify, because he knows it as well as he knows the feeling of Scott's arms anchoring him back to reality.

He must shudder, because Scott's grin falters at the extreme edges, and his surety – Scott's ever-constant, ever-reassuring consistent confidence that the world will bring them rainbows and puppies as long as they keep going – falters for a moment alongside it, and that…

That's not quite as chilling than the ghost in his room, but it's in the same general creepy vicinity.

"He doesn't know what you did," the ghost says, and Stiles can't take it. Even with Scott right there. He screws his eyes shut, and clenches his hands into fists, and he focuses on his breathing. Because if he doesn't, Stiles doesn't know what he'll do.

Scream.

Yell.

Break things.

Give Scott something _else_ to worry about on the already mountain-high pile of stressful things.

"Do you want me to—" Scott starts, lifting up slightly.

 _No,_ Stiles says in his head, _no, I don't want you to go._

"He deserves better than you," the ghost of his mom says.

"Yeah," Stiles says, his voice catching a little, but Scott's already up and half out of the room, sending him a weak smile from the doorway. "I could do with—" Stiles gestures awkwardly at his room.

"I'll tell the others," Scott says, nodding, and then leaving the room quickly like he can feel the ghost in the room. "Sleep if you can. Everything will feel better in the morning."

"Yeah," Stiles gets out, before Scott clicks the door closed, and Stiles is alone.

But not as alone as he wishes he was.

A blur of white moves in the corner of the room, settling down in the space Scott has left behind, and Stiles closes his eyes again.

Despite his wish for Scott's comfort to be back, Stiles is actually pretty glad to be alone right now, because this is so freaking _unfair._ His eyes already burn, and he's paralyzed by… Well, it's not even precisely _fear_. It's want and nerves and hatred and excitement and loathing and his childhood dreams soured by the scent of nightmares, all at once.

The number of times when he was a kid that he _wished,_ that he closed his eyes and wished and prayed to see his mom one more time. And now his wish has come true in the worst way possible.

His phone beeps, and Stiles lurches for it, hoping desperately his mother's dead head doesn't push in front of the screen (and seriously, the fact that this thought isn't an automatic indication that he's _completely lost his mind_ is ridiculous) and he feels oddly sad that it isn't HALES.

 _Were going to find loadstones,_ Scott's text reads. _Your dads gone back to work with some of the pictures. twins and Lydia are downstairs if you need sum1._

Great. Stiles has been given freaking bodyguards. They're probably expecting him to do something stupid. And well, that’s fair.

He should probably search through the photos, but with his mom right there—

Stiles drops the phone and digs his fingernails into the soft flesh of his palms, the pain lancing through him, and he takes the quickest look to the side, his heart pounding like a jackhammer –

—and she's not there, and Stiles doesn't know whether to cry or scream or smile. Somehow he's still breathing, but even that just feels like a miracle. He unclenches his hands, shivering with the effort, and fumbles automatically for his phone, and has no idea who to call.

For all that everyone rallied to his side in this moment of crisis, Stiles feels weirdly, hopelessly _alone_.

He stares at the phone for a while, before sliding it back onto his side table and clumsily plugging it in; the beep which tells him it's charging is discordant, and he can feel it like a lance of pain through his still-pulsing headache.

He probably should get up and find wherever his dad left the Tylenol, but there's a darker voice inside of him which is probably in his heart that says he _deserves_ the pain.

That's ridiculous, but Stiles still can't motivate himself to get to his feet. It's dark outside, so maybe he should try and sleep? Sleep is probably what he's missing.

Even though Stiles is pretty sure they've recovered the other two lodestones that were hiding in his room, he still can't shake the feeling of being watched – although that might be the eternal accompaniment of ghosts in his life, too. He changes for bed hiding under his covers, in a way he hasn't done since maybe his third sleepover with Scott, before they got so used to each other that it was difficult to forget they _weren't_ actually related.

Stiles lies there for a long time until he realizes it's not working, and he gets up and slopes over to this desk. But even when he opens up his laptop – and, paranoid, tapes a Band-aid over his webcam – he can't get rid of the jittery nervous energy. He'd go for a run, _some_ sort of exercise or activity, but he's not particularly sure that his legs would hold out; they've gone roughly the consistency of wet noodles. And it's not like any _other_ sort of, uh, _intimate_ energy use is possible, considering Stiles could very well still have some mystical, magical audience, and the idea of being watched isn't exactly _doing_ anything for him.

Stiles just loads up his usual tabs – email, twitter, tumblr (sorry, Scott), facebook – and types his password into Gmail, fully expecting to see a sea of read e-mails. Or maybe a (3) or (4) in his promotional tab.

The (1) Unread in his main tab is a surprise.

The fact that the e-mail says it's from **Hale, Derek** makes the surprise—

Stiles doesn't know what emotion to fill in there. It feels _nice_ , in that… his life has been missing a certain _je ne sais quoi_ for the past few days. But it feels scary, too. Because Stiles has apparently unwittingly been a human template for _How To Seduce A Werewolf In Order To Gain His Trust And Fuck Him Up_ , and with Derek's train wreck history of dubious consent and broken trust, this email is probably a scathing loquacious rant itemising Stiles' every failures at _allowing_ himself to be stalked. Except, this is _Derek._ It's more likely to be a list of _Derek's_ every failure. The werewolf does seem to have a talent for thinking every single thing is his own fault, something which inspired Stiles once to try and plot out a fault tree, to see who was really to blame for everything. Derek's name is on it a lot, but he's definitely not the root of their problems.

And Stiles is just prevaricating because he doesn't want to open the email to find out that it's the _most_ likely type of email: a "don't message or email me ever again" kind of email.

He hovers the cursor over it for a moment. He should probably wait until morning. It wouldn't be the first time a terrible email had ruined any chance of sleep, and he'd had to spend the whole next day chugging stimulants and wishing his skull didn't come with such an efficient inbuilt reverb when he was tired or hungover or otherwise incapacitated.

He probably should wait until morning, but Stiles has never let such phrases as _probably should_ bother him all that much.

The email has no subject and reads, simply:

"sorry you were caught up in this. It's not your fault.”

Stiles almost wants to roll his eyes, but he's stopped by a burst of something _else,_ a weird feeling that creeps onto his face before he can stop it. It takes him a second to realize it's a relieved smile.

Derek doesn't blame him.

It's relief, that's all it is. Because Stiles doesn't hate or fear Derek anymore, but he's still healthily nervous of two hundred pounds of heavily muscled, heavily _annoyed_ werewolf.

Stiles hits reply, and starts to tell Derek it's not his fault either, when a pop-up window steals his cursor, and _ult either_ appears in the small text entry box at the bottom of the window.

Stiles sighs, deletes the word fragments, and then realizes two things:

One, it's Gmail's chat feature, and he should probably have figured out how to turn it off by now; it would stop Greenburg sending him so many stupid HODOR instant messages, at least. Alas, Google’s chat feature is endlessly mysterious and unfathomable.

Two… it's actually Derek. Instant messaging him.

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** Hi

Stiles retypes the email into the small text box, and hits enter.

 **Stiles:** It's not your fault.

The reply isn't fast, but it arrives.

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** It kinda is.

Stiles frowns, and contemplates asking for proof of whether he's talking to Derek or Cora, but he chickens out last minute.

 **Stiles:** wait they have internet where you are?

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** we're in south America, not another planet. civilization exists outside of the USA

 **Stiles:** lies and slander!

There's no response. Stiles drums his fingertips against his desk.

 **Stiles:** anyway it's NOT YOUR FAULT. I've been working on a fault tree.

The answer's still slow to come. Stiles resists the urge to make a quip about non-USA internet speeds, but then, some of his World of Warcraft guild are in Japan, and their broadband speed is _insanely_ good; he's usually the one lagging hard.

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** what's a fault tree?

 **Stiles:** what it sounds like. look at it this way. You accidentally a virgin on the Nematon.

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** I think you have a word missing in that sentence.

And of _course_ Derek doesn't know his memes. Stiles is temporarily sad on his behalf that Derek hasn't yet had the particularly great life experience of trolling someone with a good meme. The first time Stiles used ‘I accidentally a whole soda bottle’ on Scott, Scott _cried_.

Stiles isn’t sure even now what Scott thinks Stiles _did_ with the soda bottle to evoke that level of frightened terror.

 **Stiles:** nope. doing that gave power to Jennifer.

Wait, that was probably in bad taste.

 **Stiles:** sorry. it's okay if you don't wanna talk about her.

Stiles winces at the screen until a reply appears.

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** no, it's fine. cora says I have to work on being a human.

 **Stiles:** but ur a werewolf

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** that's what I said!

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** cora says hi by the way

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** oh. she says "hi b t w"

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** cORA

There's a pause before the next response, and Stiles is not picturing the Hale siblings fighting over the laptop like he and Scott scramble to have controller number one when they game, nope (oh, god, he is, this is a mental image that's never leaving his head. _Never_.)

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** Hi my name is Derek, and I'm so lucky to have such a beautiful, adoring, clever younger sister.

Cora won, then.

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** I'm going to let her drive tomorrow. And choose the music.

 **Stiles:** Hi Cora.

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** It's me again (Derek). Cora's nursing a world of pain. Oh, do you think glaring at me's going to work, little sister? I still know all your secrets. Do you want me to tell Stiles about Mr. Fluffy?

Stiles smothers a half-smile at Derek baiting Cora through the text.

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** sorry about that. Cora's just stomped out of the hotel looking for some ice. And probably a deep enough hole to bury me in forever.

 **Stiles:** you're kind of blowing my mind here.

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** how so? is it my stellar impression of functioning adulthood?

 **Stiles:** yeah, I kinda don't believe it's you right now, buddy.

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** this thing has a webcam.

 **Iamnotasourwolf:** hang on while I figure it out

Before Stiles can protest, a window flashes up – and yeah, it's definitely Derek Hale messaging him. Stiles can actually _feel_ something inside of him loosening, and the only bizarre thought in his head – if he excludes the thought _wow who knew Derek Hale's wardrobe wasn't one hundred percent black, twenty four seven_ – is…

"Wow, I missed you," Stiles blurts out, and then he back-pedals, "Uh, kind of, I guess," and then he flails, because the small box next to Derek is black, and Derek's frowning at him. Meaning, Derek's frowning at the computer, probably wondering why it's not working. Stiles quickly peels off the Band-aid covering his webcam, and his own face appears next to Derek's.

It's a shock how tired he looks.

Stiles, that is. Not Derek. Derek's skin is darker, probably from sun, and he's clean shaven, something Stiles hasn't seen since the day after Scott was bitten. He's wearing white, which is _weird_ , and the fact that Stiles _still_ looks freakishly pale next to that, even though is… It's a little worrying, actually.

"Can you hear me?" Derek's voice is tinny and a little crackly through Stiles' speakers.

Stiles has to cough a few times before he can respond. "Yeah," he manages. "Can you—"

Derek's image shakes jerkily on the screen, pixels smattering around his head for a moment before clearing. "Still not sure it's me?"

Stiles squints exaggeratedly. "Werewolves are real. I don't discount the possibility of doppelgangers lightly."

"Or apparently ghosts," Derek says. He prods at himself. "I think I'm alive, though."

"You know about the ghosts?"

"Scott's been trying to fill me in," Derek says. "But his texts are twenty pages long, without punctuation. I'd rather hear it from you."

"Are you sure? Because I can intersperse our conversation with melodramatic statements about being the Alpha if you miss him too much."

Derek _actually laughs._

"Okay, it's official," Stiles says. "You're a pod person. Where's the real Derek Hale?"

"He's waiting," Derek says, "for you to start the goddamned story so that he doesn't have to drive for thirty-five hours to get it. Because if he had to drive that far for a story he can get for nothing over a shitty free internet connection, he might start doing some inventive things. Like _pulling your fingernails out one at a time and stuffing them down your ear canal._ "

"Oh," Stiles says, loudly, "it's _you_. Hi, Derek."

"Hi, Stiles," Derek says, flatly, shaking his head. "So. C'mon."

Stiles pulls a face. "Bossy. How did I ever doubt you were you?" he mutters, but he gets into the story, outlining what has happened in the little amount of time that Derek's been gone. Derek nods through it, but doesn't ask too many questions until the end. Even then it's a few questions about the lodestones.

He's already seen the photographs, which makes that part of it easier.

Explaining the _ghosts,_ however, isn't easy at all. Stiles would have thought the part where he's been seeing Erica might make Derek tense up and "accidentally" cut the internet connection, but it's actually the fake-sacrifice part that makes Derek's skin go a little paler.

Stiles guesses they must have skipped telling him about it during the chaos, and he rubs the back of his head ruefully. "It was worth it," he defends. "And it's not like you can tell me _you_ didn't give up everything for _your_ loved one."

Derek's ever-present frown deepens at that one.

"So," Derek says, "before. You said I…" His voice turns a little hesitant. " _Accidentally_ a—"

"Accidentally a virgin on the Nematon," Stiles supplies helpfully. "It's one of the highest branches on the fault tree."

Derek looks confused. It's his usual _I do not understand what Stiles is talking about_ face.

"That gave power to Jennifer," Stiles says. "Julia. How sure are we that _that_ is her name?"

Derek shrugs stiffly. His eyes slide to the side for a moment, and then move slowly and surely back to the middle of the screen, like he's psyching himself up for saying painful things. Stiles would bet his claws are out, off-camera.

"When we were in the hospital, during her first storm, she rambled about choosing her new name based on her original name, the same initials, because it anchored her to her real identity, in a way her face couldn't anymore," Derek says.

"So she's probably definitely maybe most likely a JB of some description," Stiles says. "Oh my _god,_ you dated Justin Bieber."

"Next time I see you, I'm pulling off your arm to hit you around the back of the head," Derek informs him.

"The left one, please," Stiles says, rolling with it easily. "My right is for writing, flipping Scott's dad the bird and tending to little Stiles." He winces. " _Big_ Stiles. I mean tending to _big_ Stiles."

Derek looks constipated. It's nice to see Derek looking like his usual self.

" _Anyway,_ " Stiles says heavily. "You think you're to blame because you gave power to the Nemeton. That's false! The fault in this scenario lies with one Justin Bieber."

" _Stiles,_ " Derek says, but the threat is unspecific, so Stiles carries on.

"But _Jennifer_ only took the power because Deucalion ordered Kali to kill her. So on the fault tree, we move down to Deucalion."

"Right," Derek says. "So it's a fault Nemeton."

" _Now_ you're getting me," Stiles says. "But it's not Deucalion's fault."

"How does that—"

"Because Deucalion only descended to his cartoonish brand of villainy because of Gerard."

"So… it's _Gerard's_ fault."

"Yep," Stiles says, as he idly sketches out a tree on the notebook by his laptop. The curving roots already look too much like the Nemeton, so he scribbles at it so it doesn't look so neat before writing Derek's name up amongst the trees. After a beat, he adds his own name, near Derek's, but that's just wishful thinking. "And we can link the crazy Kate branches to Gerard too. But, it's not Gerard's fault."

"I—" Derek squints. "I'm so lost."

"Gerard only went batshit because Deucalion bit his brother, Alexander."

"So… now it's Deucalion's fault again?"

"At the moment, that's how far down the fault tree I've gotten," Stiles says. "But I'm pretty sure Deucalion and Gerard are older than you, and thus have had many more decades to try to ruin the world." He punctuates that by scrawling Deucalion and Gerard in amongst the roots.

Derek leans forward on whatever he's sitting on; the resolution's too blurry to make out the rest of the room. " _How_ sure are you that Deucalion's older than me?"

"Oh my god, I'm seeing ghosts and I have a house full of stalker-like photos," Stiles says, "I am _not_ dealing with your creepy cryptic werewolf age bullshit on top of everything else. I _refuse_."

Derek half-chuckles. "Is Lydia coming up with anything?"

Stiles purses his lips for a moment. "She's inhumanly clever, as usual," he says, slowly, and then more quickly, "which I suppose makes sense as I guess she _isn't_ human. Or is she? Are banshees human? How do you even _make_ a banshee? How—"

"Slow down," Derek says. "I don't—It's not entirely my area of expertise."

"Oh? You have one of those?" Stiles says. It's probably a little mean. Derek just brings out the best in him.

"Yeah. A few. Slamming people into walls. Snarling. Being extremely gullible—"

Stiles interrupts him, because he really doesn't want Derek lingering on that. "She's downstairs, I could ask."

"Downstairs?"

"Apparently I need bodyguards," Stiles says, spreading his hands wide.

"Babysitters," Derek corrects.

"Fuck you, I'll babysit _you_ ," Stiles says, but it's good-natured and Derek just grins. The adverb wolfish definitely applies. "Ugh, I bet you could even use _babysit_ and make it sound threatening, too."

"Also another one of my life skills," Derek says.

"Along with losing every fight ever."

Stiles isn't sure, but the blur of pixels around Derek's face is probably a pout, and his shoulders definitely sag, and _oh,_ Stiles mouth has run away with him, yet again. He needs a better filter. Derek's not going to be ready to discuss everything that Stiles wants to talk about.

"I sadly resemble that remark," Derek says. Stiles opens his mouth to retort, to blurt out an apology, but Derek's head moves to the right at a sound. Stiles closes his mouth and looks behind Derek to see a blur enter the room.

"Holy _shit,_ you look _awful,_ " Cora says, putting something down off-screen and pushing her face up into the camera. Her finger suddenly looms at the screen, massive and shadowy, like she thinks she can prod him if she prods the camera.

"Lovely to see you too, Cora," Stiles says, squinting. Cora sinks down next to Derek, crowding in so she's taking up more of the window, and Derek rolls his eyes at her, a smile lingering on his face at her antics.

Getting away from Beacon Hills obviously suits him. Stiles is hit by the idea of Derek not coming back, of him finding a place for Cora, settling down with her, somewhere far away in the sun— and the ensuing feeling in Stiles' body is weird. Dissociative. Spiking in his body like a burst of unwelcome acid.

"Of _course_ it's lovely to see me," Cora says, straight-faced. "I'm delightful."

"And so very humble," Derek deadpans, earning himself an elbow in his side from his sibling, and he just ducks his head and half-smiles, and oh god, Stiles feels a little sick – and it's almost _longing_.

Not that he wants Derek and Cora, but… maybe a little of what they have right now.

"So where are you?" Stiles says, because his brain could be going horrible places, but his words didn't have to follow.

"Capirucha, amigo," Cora says in an appalling accent that both Stiles and Derek wince at. "Mexico city. I've eaten _all of the food_."

"She has," Derek says, looking slightly alarmed. "I can smell it."

"I'm not as gassy as _someone_ I could mention," Cora says.

"I'm glad you're having a good time," Stiles says, and he tries to smile, but it falls a little. "I think I am pretty tired."

"No shit," Cora says. "You're so pale you're practically a ghost. Wha—"

" _Cora,_ " Derek says, warningly, and Stiles shakes his head, hearing the word out loud making his stomach churn weirdly, and he looks down.

"I gotta go," he blurts, and just slams the laptop lid down, hoping that'll be enough to break the connection.

Shit. _Shit._ Stiles balls his hands into fists, and pushes them into his eyes, and he doesn't cry and he doesn't freak out, because the werewolves downstairs would hear, but he wants to.

He's such a kid. He's such a little, frightened _kid_ , slamming the conversation shut because he's an idiot who can't deal with _one little word_.

An idiot who had the chance to see his mom again, and he didn't take it. He just shut his eyes until she went away. That's not the kind of person he _is_. He's supposed to be the impulsive one. The one that's told to do something and does the complete opposite.

He slinks over to his bed, meaning to crawl up under the covers again, but pauses when his phone beeps. From a few steps away, he can see HALES, and he swallows. He's already been a coward far too many times today. Steeling himself, he hurries over to it and opens the text, thoroughly expecting a text he can't answer.

 _I MISS YOU TOO_ is all it says.

Derek _heard_ that. And he—He— Stiles swallows, and has to swallow hard, because something wells up behind his eyes, hot and painful, and he almost _can't_ breathe, so he puts the phone down with trembling fingers, goes to wash his face with cold water and brush his teeth, and then he forces himself to bed again to try and sleep.

If it takes him a little while to fall asleep, because he keeps reaching for his phone to read the text again and again, no one has to know.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_“He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is detestable. And it has a fascination, too, which goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination—you know.”_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

Stiles must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing he knows, he's awake and his room is filled with natural light. Wait. Never mind. The awake part seems to be negotiable; he might still be dreaming – because Lydia Martin's in his room.

"Morning?" Stiles says, squinting. Sleep has been such an alien concept over the last few nights that this whole waking-up thing is more difficult than he remembers. "I think?"

"Yup," Lydia says. "I forged absence notes for us all at the school, though. So don't worry about that."

"I am not awake enough for this conversation," Stiles says, and winces at the feel of his mouth. "Also, maintain a perimeter; I think I’m beating the werewolves in the who-can-smell-the-worst game.”

Lydia squints at him, and then shakes herself. "You need to get up," she says, and then looks down at his rumpled sheets. "Get up, get washed, get dressed. We leave in ten minutes."

Stiles pushes himself to a sitting position, and in a probably too-belated afterthought, tugs his sheets closer, covering himself up. "We? Where are we going? Where's Dad? Whe—"

"They're all out," Lydia says, and then she sighs and sits gingerly on the edge of his bed. "Scott's downstairs making some breakfast for you. Allison and Isaac are already looking. _We_ are headed out."

"I'm missing something," Stiles says, and rubs at his forehead. Damn, he was really hoping a nap would beat that headache into submission.

Lydia frowns, and shuffles awkwardly. "While you were resting, after your dad got back," she says. "I went to see Dr. Deaton. He said—That maybe my, y'know, _special ability_ —"

"Your special banshee powers," Stiles helpfully provides.

"Yes," Lydia snaps. " _Those._ " She sighs, and levels a slightly wild-eyed look at him. "He taught me a meditation to try and access those powers."

"Yeah?"

"And I woke up this morning craving popcorn." Lydia shuffles on her heels, giving him a distressed expression which, no, is completely way too confusing for Stiles' poor aching head.

"Right," Stiles says, and he frowns. "Maybe…"

"I don't even _eat_ carbs," Lydia says, and she rolls her eyes, and Stiles is about to say something to that when he notices the small signs of her genuine anguish; signs that others might miss, but he's spent half a lifetime cataloguing. The way her fingers stretch and relax, the slight wideness of her eyes, the staccato offbeat shuffle of her feet.

She's genuinely distressed over this.

"So… there's a dead body. Are we thinking grocery stores, or—"

"Movie theater is our best shot," Lydia says.

"Ugh," Stiles says, rubbing his head, because there's a lot of movie theaters around town. As well as a lot of abandoned buildings. Why Stiles never figured out before Scott was bitten that there was supernatural fuckery afoot is ridiculous in retrospect. "I'll be right down," Stiles promises.

"Good," Lydia says, not turning around.

Stiles sights, and pulls one arm out from under the covers to gesture at the door, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

She sighs and tuts. "It won't be anything I haven't seen before."

Stiles keeps pointing. Lydia rolls her eyes again, and turns to leave.

She pauses on the threshold, one perfectly manicured hand spreading over the door frame as she angles her head back at him. "And yes," Lydia says, wrinkling her nose. " _Do_ brush your teeth. Or at least do something to stimulate salivation."

She turns before he can respond. Stiles scowls firmly at her retreating back.

#

It turns out that Scott's idea of making breakfast is pouring a bowl of his dad's granola and leaving him half a carton of two per cent by the bowl, while Scott himself devours Stiles’ hidden stash of cheesy Doritos.

"Thanks, buddy," Stiles says, and tips it in the garbage as soon as Scott leaves the room to use the bathroom before they leave. Lydia smirks, and tosses him a banana with a weird look that Stiles is _definitely_ not going to try and identify. He peels it and looks over the top of the fruit at her. "Is it okay that we're taking our time to leave? What if it's a dead body we find, not a potential victim? I thought you didn't want to—"

Lydia shrugs as she interrupts. "I'm waiting in the car, it doesn't matter if _you_ find a dead body or not."

"It doesn't _matter_?" Stiles asks, through a mouthful of banana.

Lydia wrings her hands awkwardly for a moment. "I had an uncontrollable urge for fro-yo the other day," she says, and looks up at him uncertainly.

The body Kyle McCall found Lydia near had been between the fro-yo place and the nail salon. Stiles wrinkles his mouth in empathy, because he's starting to realize that Scott, Allison and he aren't the only ones being stalked by something they can't understand.

"Are we taking the bus?" Stiles asks, not entirely sure he can walk as far as the bus stop; his headache's pretty bad, now that he's up and wandering around. He rubs his head and reaches up to the nearest kitchen closet, but the Tylenol bottle is empty. He sighs.

"I have my car," Lydia says. "But Aiden's driving."

Stiles shoots her a look.

"He doesn't just know motorcycles," Lydia says. "Besides. It's nice having a cute chauffeur."

"I'd agree, but Scott tells me that too much for me to be wooed by it," Stiles says, grimly.

"You are the cutest chauffeur," Scott says, throwing Stiles his jacket. "C'mon, let's go. Isaac texted me; they're nearly at the Fairview theater."

Scott, because he's his _bro,_ and the absolute best, takes shotgun next to Aiden, and Stiles shuffles into the back, belting up and smiling across at Lydia.

It's not that Stiles would ever even think of making a move on Lydia in front of her current werewolf boyfriend; it's more Stiles is still relatively sure Aiden's going to snap and kill them all with his fists, werewolf claws be damned, and he feels safer sitting behind Scott.

"Allison came up with the idea of splitting into two groups. There are too many movie theaters in town to cover otherwise," Lydia says, apparently deciding Stiles will appreciate business talk rather than feelings. As usual, she's right.

“So Allison and Isaac are checking out the Fairview.”

“And the Heights, because it’s so close,” Lydia says. “And the CinemaStar, because I’m banned from there for life.”

Stiles shoots her a look.

“There was an alleged incident with a hot dog and my nail scissors,” Lydia says.

“I’m… not gonna ask,” Stiles says.

“We’re checking out the Senator and the Regency,” Lydia says.

Stiles hums appreciatively. Scott did a project once about the Senator - it had been a vaudeville theater originally, built at the turn of the century, and then in the sixties, a single screen had been installed, and it opened once a week as a movie theater. It closed when Stiles was eleven, and Stiles had been quite happy; his mom had promised to take him to see a movie there when she got better, and when she died, Stiles knew he'd never want to see a movie there. The theater closing down shut out all the worry of having to come up with a decent excuse if someone had tried to invite him.

“We’re also about halfway through the photos,” Lydia says. She looks at him worriedly. Oh, yeah. Stiles hadn’t said anything. That _is_ a sign he’s not right. “The hospital’s working out as the hardest location to remove the lodestones from, though.”

"I can help," Stiles says.

Lydia nods. "I've put some in your folder on Dropbox; you should be able to cover them before your session with Deaton on Sunday."

"Great," Stiles says, drumming his fingers on his knees. "How are you getting on with the book?"

"Fine," Lydia says. "I've translated the first three chapters, and they seem to be about a key, but the diagram matches nothing that we found in her apartment or on her laptop."

"That's not all, though," Stiles says, because she's not meeting his eyes, and that's classic Lydia for her holding something back.

She flashes him an annoyed look at his perceptiveness. "I've been wondering about the books Ms. Blake – I mean Julia – left behind," Lydia says, frowning. "It just… seems convenient."

"Convenient?" Stiles repeats, thinking about the adrenaline rush of escaping from right beneath Kyle McCall's nose.

"That the three volumes were in languages we would understand," Lydia says, frowning. "Baccari's an Italian name, but the diary Allison's translating is French."

"Well are the books _convenient,_ or a clue to where she was from? If we find out where she came from, we might be able to get more information on what she was planning. Baccari's Italian, yeah, but it's a _Renaissance_ Italian name," Stiles says. "And people move. Emigration. Boredom. Diaspora." He thinks idly that Bieber is a Germanic name. "French is a common subject in European schools; she could be French. Or Canadian. Was she faking her accent?"

"She was killed around here," Lydia says. "If the Nemeton was able to revive her, chances are she's a local."

"Not really, unless the tree only works for locals, and we don't know that," Stiles says. "Beacon Hills was a transient area for wolf packs; they travelled to see Talia Hale. Derek's mom was seriously respected amongst the packs; packs came miles to see her, to ask her advice."

"Still, checking out some of the local news archives in the library might be worth a try," Lydia says, shrugging. "Besides, if Mrs. Hale was a werewolf head honcho, I doubt packs came just the once. Maybe we can find something out about her past."

"Smart," Stiles says, automatically. Lydia grins.

"Stop hitting on my girlfriend, _Stilinski,_ " Aiden barks from the front; Scott laughs a little, the traitor.

"I'm just stating the obvious, uh, what is your last name anyway?" Stiles squints at the rearview mirror; Aiden bares his teeth as a response. "My bad for asking," he quickly tags on.

Lydia's phone chirps, and she glances at it. "Allison says there's nothing at the Fairview, so they're going on to the Heights."

Stiles twists in his seat, trying to figure out how far away they are from the Senator. “We haven’t even checked one theater yet.”

"Yeah, statistically it's more likely Allison, Ethan and Isaac will come across the dead body," Lydia says, checking her nails idly. "Boo hoo for us."

"Except they're going to _modern_ theaters, and we're going to the big creepy-ass abandoned one," Stiles says. "Horror movie theory dictates _we're_ the most statistically likely to find the dead body."

"We?" Lydia says. "I think you mean _you._ "

Stiles rolls his eyes, and settles back to use the rest of the ride to try and wake up properly; he’s still fuzzy-headed, and the car journey’s making him feel a little queasy. Lydia seems to notice he’s not entirely right, and she doesn’t speak again, letting him rest.

A few minutes later, Scott straightens up in his seat. "Oh, that's just _wrong,_ " he says, suddenly, and Stiles tenses, and starts looking around, at the buildings streaking past, and he can't see anything out of the ordinary. "Um. My, uh, astral passenger is lying on the hood."

Lydia looks at the hood automatically, and Stiles peeks around the side of Scott's head slowly, wondering if he'll be able to see Harold McCall – but he sees nothing but concrete, whitewash and the road.

"Really wrong," Scott says, sounding queasy. "I don't like this ride. I want to get off."

"There's nowhere to pull over on this road," Aiden says.

"He means the ghost thing, dumbass," Lydia says, reaching forward and rubbing the back of his neck consolingly. Aiden _purrs_ a little at the touch. Stiles winces, because, nope, not something he ever wanted to see.

Lydia happy, sure. _Aiden_ happy _,_ on the other hand…

Well, it's better than Aiden roaring and punching things, he supposes.

"It _is_ nice to see people happy, don't you think?" Erica asks, and Stiles startles, smashing his elbow into the side of the door.

"You got one too, huh?" Lydia asks, and then she leans forward, her face searching. Erica grins at Stiles, all teeth.

"Scott's right," Stiles says, weakly. "I want off this ride."

"I coulda given you the ride of your _life,_ " Erica says, stretching provocatively. Stiles closes his eyes and tries not to whimper; a soft touch makes his eyes snap open, because if the ghosts are graduating to _touching,_ fuck his life. Seriously.

But it's just Lydia, and her eyes are soft with concern; the space between them is empty, and Stiles realizes he's holding his breath. He lets it go, slow and measured, and Lydia smiles.

"Well, I can let you off _this_ ride," Aiden says, turning the car and pulling up into a space.

"Scott, Stiles, off you go," Lydia says. "Aiden has to stay with me. Just in case a body falls out of the sky, or something." She smiles innocently at Stiles.

"Or his tongue falls into your mouth," Stiles bitches, because he can, but he unbuckles and gets out of the car, smoothing his shirt down. Outside, the cool air makes his headache weirdly more pronounced; he can feel the way that it's pulsing against the inside of his skull. He's almost forgotten how _not_ having a headache feels.

"You okay with that?" Scott asks, jerking his thumb backwards at the car as they head towards the rear of the building, automatically expecting there to be some way in that hasn't been werewolf-proofed.

Stiles looks back, and is rewarded by a glimpse of Aiden's large hands sliding around Lydia's ass as he lifts her up against the car. He jerks his gaze forwards again. "About as okay as you are with Allison and Isaac."

"Point taken," Scott says, grimacing. "Ooh, hey, that looks promising."

"Nice deflection," Stiles grouches, and follows Scott finger – there's an open door right into the theater. Of course, it's an old fire escape forty feet up in the air and the stairs have long since disappeared – there's half a ladder maybe thirty feet up dangling from the platform underneath it. Scott looks to one side, gauging the possible ways to get up, and looks satisfied when he sees a run of wheelie bins and a broken-off pipe.

Stiles folds his arms when Scott looks at him excitedly. "Rather you than me, bro. Go do your wolfy gymnastics."

"I'll find some way to get that open," Scott says, gesturing his head at a door on the ground.

Stiles hangs back and watches, keeping one eye on the sidewalk that runs alongside the theater, and another eye on Scott as he leaps gracefully onto the bins, and then to the ladder, effortlessly hauling himself up to somewhere. Stiles' neck twinges with the awkward angle he has to push himself into to see his wolfy friend. Scott gives him a thumbs up and disappears into the building.

It might be a while before Scott can find a way to the first floor. Stiles toes the ground, checks the sidewalk nervously, and tries not to think about Lydia and Aiden getting hot and heavy a few yards away.

He pulls out his phone, and puts it away again, and then pulls it out again because he can send a _business_ text to Derek, right?

 _Lydia's trying to work on her banshee powers, and seems to be using her sense of taste as a preternatural psychic body detector_ , Stiles types, eyes flickering between the screen, the theater and the sidewalk. _Have you heard of this sort of phenomenon before?_

He hits send, and thinks about it, and sends a second text. _Do werewolves have super taste??_

He skitters on the sidewalk, bouncing his knees up and down, bored of waiting even though it's only been a minute. Dammit, he hasn't had his Adderall this morning. He's completely off rhythm; he lets out a yelp when his phone buzzes, and a passer-by that Stiles didn't even notice eyeballs him weirdly and hurries on down the sidewalk.

Stiles smiles off-kilter at them until they disappear, rubs the back of his neck worriedly for missing the random stranger, and looks up at the fire escape. If Scott can't open the door, he'll have to come out how he came in.

 _ALL SUPERNATURAL CREATURES OF WHATEVER DESCRIPTION SEEM TO USE THEIR SENSES_ , Derek texts back. Then just a few seconds later – he's getting better: _IT'S GOOD TO JUST FOCUS ON DEVELOPING ONE. ENCOURAGE HER TO WORK ON THIS. IT'LL MAKE HER STRONGER._

A stronger Lydia. It's fascinating to think about, in the same way Stiles often thinks about category five storms and world war.

 _SCENT AND TASTE ARE STRONGLY CONNECTED_ , a third text comes through. _REGRETTABLY YES, SOME WEREWOLVES HAVE STRONGER PALETTES_.

 _Ooh, I should totally test Scott with this_ , Stiles types back, excited. _Any particularly obnoxious tastes that you can recommend?_

 _I'LL EMAIL YOU A LIST TONIGHT_.

Oh, right, Stiles is probably bugging him. _Thanks_ , he texts back, shaking his head in silent laughter at his phone at the potential hijinks coming Scott's way in the near future.

Only to lose his phone a second later when Scott whips it out of his hand. "What's so funny?" Scott asks, scrolling through Stiles' texts. Stiles looks up sourly to see the back door is now open; Scott's gotten much _quieter_ since become a werewolf, and it's rapidly becoming one of Stiles' least favorite werewolf superpowers.

"Uh—" Stiles starts, eloquently, his head too thick with a heavy ache for him to think of something witty to get him out of the inevitable mocking he's about to get.

"You're in _cahoots_ with Derek now?" Scott whines, and starts to walk over to the door. Stiles follows automatically. "Why not just shoot me in the face, man, it'll hurt less."

"I'm not in _cahoots_ with anyone," Stiles says. "And oh my god, cahoots is a sacred word, why would you even use it as an allegory for unclean deeds? It's one of my favorite non-innuendo words. You have _ruined it._ "

"I'm not even sorry," Scott says, "and _I missed you too?_ Stiles. _Stiles._ " Scott starts pawing at Stiles' arm and Stiles inhales, low and loud, because if Scott's persistent when he's mocking him, he kinda only has himself to blame.

"It's not _like_ that," Stiles says, and flails out, managing to grab his phone back. "I think I would have told you if—Y'know. My fifteen year plan had changed direction."

Scott looks at him, his face shadowed by the looming building they're about to enter. "Not if you thought there was nothing to tell."

"What does that even mean?" Stiles asks, peering through the open door into the murky darkness behind it. "After you," he says, wrinkling his nose.

"It means denial isn't just a river in Egypt," Scott says, and ducks through into the building without giving Stiles time to answer.

Well, it's not that he really has an answer for that. But what Scott doesn't know... "I see what you're doing, McCall; dodging out of the way of my scorching wit. Seriously. _Denial isn't just a river in Egypt_. That has to be the oldest joke in the book." Stiles closes the door carefully behind him, and follows Scott as he heads up a flight of stairs. The way through to the main part of the building is blocked. Maybe the whole building has been condemned. At least then Scott might fall through one of the steps.

"This leads to the top floor," Scott says. "But I thought I'd come get you because you're better at figuring out the logistics of some things than me."

"Don't hurt yourself with that compliment," Stiles tells Scott's back.

"I said _some_ things," Scott says. "It's basically a back-handed compliment."

"I'll back-hand _you,_ " Stiles mutters as they emerge into the darkness of the upper circle.

There is some light, provided by tears in the ceiling that send sharp arrows of lights at random angles around the large theater. Part of the top floor's wall is illuminated by one width of light, and Stiles quirks a smile at the old, crumbling molding. It's in the shape of cursive stylised flowers and fans, and painted to look like marble even though it's clearly plaster. His mom brought him up here once to make wax crayon rubbings of it, and he still has it, somewhere, in a box he can't bring himself to throw away, even though there's no good use for crumpled paper with crayon flower imprints.

The memory is sharp and sour in Stiles' stomach, and he glances around; he opens his mouth to say something, but there's a breeze against his face – and a decidedly warm hand flat against his mouth.

And yes, a definite taste of cheese dust in his mouth too. Scott is the _worst_.

"Dude—" Stiles starts, his voice muffled, and he licks Scott's palm because that's the only thing to do. Scott pulls his hand back and wrinkles his nose, but puts a finger up to his lips after that.

 _Quiet,_ he mouths.

Stiles frowns, and holds still, listening. There's maybe some rustling downstairs. He tilts his head to try and focus his hearing, but he can't make anything out. He looks across at Scott, who's standing in one of the beams of light.

Scott quietly opens up his hand, and taps his chest with his palm, regularly, slowly and methodically. _Heartbeats,_ Stiles mouths at him, quiet. Scott nods, and holds up five fingers.

Five heartbeats. Downstairs. In an abandoned creepy-ass building. Stiles’ life is _awesome_. Well, at least he's there with an Alpha werewolf, he supposes. And there's a pouch of mountain ash in his pocket, just in case, even though Stiles is still more likely to cover himself in the stuff than do anything useful with it.

And then Scott holds up his second hand.

Six fingers. Seven. _Eight._

Eight heartbeats.

Stiles stares at him, and points at the door they've just entered, but Scott shakes his head. Whoever it is, Scott doesn't think they can get away with escaping.

Ah, well, it's been a few days since Stiles has sustained any sort of injury. His run of good luck – such as it is – was bound to run out at some point.

Then it gets worse.

"FBI!" booms an annoyingly familiar voice.

There's a torrent of voices then, and the noise of running feet, and then the racket of teenage boys yelping, which sounds just about right.

"This place is condemned," Kyle McCall barks. "Men, get them out of here."

"You can't just throw us out," a boy's voice yells. He sounds British, Stiles thinks.

"I can," Kyle says. "This is a crime scene."

"I think we would have noticed a crime," another boy says, but there's a different twang to his voice – maybe Irish. "Unless you mean Harry's fashion sense?"

" _Hey,_ " the British-sounding boy says.

There's a whole barrage of legalese from Kyle McCall which Stiles happens to know is mostly bullshit, but the boys seem to buy it; there's a lot of crashing around, and Stiles points at the door, meaning _we can use this sound to cover our movements_ , but Scott takes it to mean _move closer to the sound_.

Which, of course he does. He's learned most of his bad life decision-making skills from Stiles.

Stiles rolls his eyes and follows him, because that's what friendship is for. Following each other blindly – unless of course there's a chance for only one of them to get in trouble and save the other (so that the un-grounded one could deliver snacks and sanity to the grounded one, naturally) in which case, all parties are go for that.

Besides, Kyle's a dick and probably has someone guarding the back entrance.

Scott gets them close enough to be able to see over the edge, and Stiles squints down, semi-expecting there to be a dead body – but it just looks like any of the surprisingly numerous abandoned buildings around Beacon County. There's a lot of detritus around the stage that suggests the five boys – they look like teenagers, maybe a year younger than Stiles and Scott, but Stiles doesn't recognize any of them so they're not local – have been living there for a little while, at least.

"There's nothing here," one of Kyle's men says, loud enough for Stiles not to need special werewolf hearing. "Looks like a false alarm."

"Okay," Kyle says, sighing heavily. "Move them out and let's move on."

"You heard what he said," his man replies, and starts ushering the five boys out. For a moment, Kyle looks up at the balcony, and Stiles freezes, like he can see them somehow, but after a heart-pounding moment Kyle moves on. Stiles looks across at Scott, who has his head tilted like he's listening, and Scott holds up one hand: wait.

Stiles sighs, and looks across at Erica, and she smiles at him.

Wait. _What_? Ugh. Stiles is pretty sure he's not supposed to be so blasé about ghosts yet.

"Just a couple more minutes, I think, and we're safe to go," Scott says in a whisper.

Stiles nods at him, and opens his mouth, and shuts it again.

"He said he doesn't want to talk about ghosts," Erica says.

"I know," Stiles says, irritated.

Scott shoots him a strange look, and then tenses in realization.

Stiles gives Scott a remorseful look, opens his mouth, and fails to come up with an appropriate apology quickly. Scott's phone chimes, breaking the silence, and Stiles points at it victoriously. "Ha! Who left their phone on at the crime scene now, huh?" Stiles dances a little, keeping his elbows in close to his body, swinging his hips obnoxiously.

Scott opens his mouth to protest, and Stiles' phone chimes noisily too. Scott just grins.

"Don't even say it," Stiles says, dejectedly, and looks down at the screen.

"Is it Derek?" Erica asks, resting her chin on his shoulder, peering over.

Stiles feels weird when he sees _1 New Text from **Lydia**_ on the small screen. That weird feeling is _not_ disappointment. Nope.

Ugh, he's a terrible liar. "Message from Lydia," Stiles says. "Allison found something."

"Yeah, she did," Scott says heavily, and turns his phone around – it's a close up of someone's forehead, the wannabe Alpha mark scratched into the skin. "She says to meet at the animal clinic."

"Awesome, more dead bodies," Stiles says, rubbing his forehead. "Guess we need to go, huh?"

Scott nods, but he looks reluctant to move. Stiles waits, because dammit he does know when to be silent, boo to all the losers who think he doesn't know how to be sensitive to his best friend's needs.

Then again, sometimes said best friend needs a nudge. "Spit it out, McCall," Stiles says.

"It's just—This place." Scott's forehead furrows. "It smells _off_."

Stiles sniffs, but his human senses just give him a nose full of general rot and decay.

"Probably nothing," Scott says, and starts to pick across the rubble and the half-collapsed seats towards the exit.

"Except for—" Stiles prompts. Scott looks over his shoulder, still frowning. "Dude, if it's the fear of saying stupid things holding you back, you're being ridiculous, because I will _always_ win the battle of stupidity. _Always_. Your pathetic attempts at stupid utterances will never—"

"It's the carvings," Scott says. Stiles looks back at them, and then back at Scott. "I just think it's odd for a theater to have wolfsbane as a decoration."

" _Ooh,_ " Erica says. "Spooky!"

Stiles looks back at the carvings, and takes a picture of it with his phone, the manufactured sound of his camera app sounding almost alien in the still air. The shape of the flowers is familiar, now he sees it, but like most things at the moment… he doesn't have a single clue what it might mean.

#

"Definitely wolfsbane," Deaton says, looking through the photos.

"And the lodestones?" Scott asks, unwrapping the pile of grey spheres sitting in the middle of the examination table. He'd wrapped them in a loose flyer for the October Travelling Fair, which Stiles doesn't think is _entirely_ appropriate; a crude illustration of a vampire bares its teeth at them from amongst the round stones.

"Deactivated," Deaton murmurs, still looking through the photos. "Have Miss. Argent and Miss. Martin had any more luck with the volumes they're translating?"

"Allison got as far as making the connection to Stiles," Scott says, while Stiles fidgets uncomfortably. Although Deaton said the clinic was protected from ghosts, Erica's outside, lounging on the hood of Lydia's car. "Lydia said her book so far has described a key."

Deaton looks up from the photos sharply. "Was there a key in amongst Miss. Baccari's possessions?"

"Not unless it was inside the box," Stiles says.

"Allison said this morning that her dad thinks it's familiar," Scott says. "He's waiting to hear back from a contact in East Europe – he thinks the curse is a safety mechanism."

"Perhaps his contact can make do with pictures," Deaton says. "I'd like to do an X-ray of the box. See if we can guess at what's inside before we expend resources we can't afford on opening it."

"Resources we can't afford?" Stiles prompts.

"The Beacon County body count's rising, Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says, levelling an enigmatic look right at him. "Maybe our priority should be stopping it from getting any higher instead of fixating on a dead woman's possessions?"

"I've been working on that," Allison calls from the doorway. Isaac and Ethan are with her, and they're both covered in blood, and Aiden and Lydia are behind them. Aiden's obviously finished "comforting" Lydia; her hair is mussed at the back, her lipstick is freshly applied, and there's a smear of crimson at Aiden's neck that Stiles is not thinking about, nope.

Stiles really hopes the blood on Isaac and Ethan is not their own. Even though werewolves can heal, open wounds make him a little queasy.

"Shouldn't you all be in school?" Deaton asks, frowning.

"It's terrible how we all picked up the same highly transmittable stomach bug," Lydia says, idly checking her nails.

Deaton blinks, like he's unsure that he should be condoning that sort of behavior.

"It was my idea," Scott says, and Deaton's sudden tension relaxes a little. Stiles stares, but then he remembers how he reacts around Derek – like in the hospital, responding to his orders about the defibrillator just _minutes_ after yelling at him for even _considering_ ordering him around – and he wonders not for the first time about how susceptible humans are to Alphas. He wonders whether it's a werewolf power – the ability to influence humans – or if it's just the psychological power of confident command.

"So what did you find?" Stiles asks, because his head was already hurting enough _before_ he started thinking heavy philosophical things.

"Allison saved someone's life," Isaac blurts, smiling at her proudly. "There was a rabid Omega, and there was a lonely clerk left cleaning up a massive popcorn explosion in the foyer, and this werewolf was about to spear the guy's kidneys out through his back, and Allison shot him _right through the eye,_ first shot, and—"

"And I should be the one to get to tell this story, don't you think?" Allison interrupts, her cheeks going a little pink. "And Lydia's the real hero, anyway. She's the one that got us _looking_ at theaters."

Lydia looks at Allison, startled. Her eyes go a little wet, and her awkward, off-balanced smile is so genuine that Stiles feels his own mouth quirking involuntarily to match.

"Plus five to the banshee," Stiles says, waving his fists like they're pom-poms.

"We did it as a team," Lydia says, and looks around at them all. "As a pack." There's wonder in her tone at the last three words, almost a reverence, and Stiles understands that; it resonates with him in a way that startles him, that gives him a moment of relief from the ever-present pounding of his headache.

All of them are from broken families. Some more broken than others. Scott and Lydia are the only ones rocking two living parents, and the Martins are not exactly winning any awards for A+ parenting. But the pack… It's something good for all of them.

A family of their own choosing.

"So a rabid Omega," Scott says, slowly, bringing things back on topic. He's adjusting well to the role of Alpha. Maybe because it's been a role he's fallen into ever since being bitten, and Stiles just didn't want to admit to it. Scott crosses his arms over his chest, and looks over to Deaton for assurance. "Random, or lured by the Nemeton?"

"Either is possible," Deaton allows. Stiles swallows down a lump of jealousy that Scott is looking to his boss, because jealousy is ridiculous. He's had less than a handful of lessons now on emissary-ing, and most of it has been reading about plants and failing to throw mountain ash properly. There's no _reason_ Scott should look to him for backup knowledge.

Stiles grits his teeth a little, and tries to pay as much attention as he can, considering his head kinda feels like it's been dragged along a rough sidewalk for an hour.

"Dad's looking into it," Allison says. "Omegas tend to be tracked, they have predictable movement patterns normally. The problem is that I think we need another Omega to turn up before we can have a clue as to whether it's just one random Omega that's turned up, or whether more are coming. And if more are coming, there could be a pattern to how they're being lured here. But we can't just sit around and wait for more people to die."

"Maybe we can set up a patrol," Scott says. "Try and catch a scent, find the Omegas _before_ they kill. Omegas can't mask their scents, can they?"

"Not without an outside scent to obscure them," Deaton says. "Certain plants." He looks across at Stiles heavily.

"Lavender," Stiles supplies. It's hard remembering plants, especially considering his head's still feeling like someone's taking a sledgehammer to it. "Lemon grass." He squints. "Basil?"

"For a start," Deaton says.

"Or a good carbon filter," Stiles adds. "With a good enough extractor fan."

Deaton frowns at him for that one.

"My dad busts a lot of cannabis growers," Stiles says.

"You said that Omegas can't mask their scent," Lydia picks up on. “Who—”

"Alphas can," Ethan explains, sharing a look with Aiden. "It takes a lot of control. A lot of meditation."

"Deaton's been teaching me," Scott says, and hurries over to Isaac, holding his wrists out. "You should totally try smelling me."

"Uh," Isaac says, wrinkling his nose. "I'm fine, thanks."

Aiden rolls his eyes and leans over Isaac obnoxiously, sniffing at Scott's pulse point on his wrist. "You're getting there," he says, eyeballing Scott. "You're still carrying a little _eau de wet dog_."

"That's just because I said hi to Charlie before the meeting," Scott says, and grins, "he's this _adorable_ baby shih tzu with a broken leg, he's the _cutest thing ever_ , and—"

"—weren't we just talking about priorities?" Stiles says.

Scott steps back, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Uh, yeah. So. A scent patrol?"

"We should divide up the town," Allison says, and tugs her tablet out, swiping up a map of the area. She leans over it, and Scott crowds in. "We could split the town up into quadrants, and each quadrant into a further part—"

"Why not just stick with the larger segments?" Aiden asks. "We could cover more ground."

"It would be better if we were closer together," Scott says. "We don't know if there are more around, whether we might need back up. And it's daylight. We can't risk running on all fours where people can see."

"I don't know if I feel confident splitting up on my own," Isaac admits.

Allison claps him on the shoulder. "You have my bow," she says, with a smirk. Isaac smiles at her.

Stiles rolls his eyes. Of _course_ Allison knows Lord of the Rings. She's basically a girl Legolas.

He leans against the side counter as the werewolves start talking about how to divide up the town. Lydia comes to stand next to him, watching the map contemplatively.

"I'll leave you to this," Deaton says. He taps Stiles on the shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow for our session."

Stiles nods at him.

"Well, looks like it's you and me," Lydia says, and looks at Stiles.

"Do you think they even remember we're here?" Stiles says, gesturing at the others as they argue over the map. Deaton's left the pile of lodestones on the table, and it feels weird seeing them there. There's still more to find from the number of them, but he can't bring himself to suggest that as something to do.

"I just—I want to do something active, y'know?" Lydia sighs, scratching her wrist for a second before scowling at the red indent she's left behind and pulling her hands away. "I can't just sit around and wait to get a craving for something bizarre."

"So we'll try something active," Stiles says, shrugging. "We've still got a couple of good free hours before school lets out. What else has worked for you?"

"Screaming," Lydia says.

Stiles winces. "Uh, I'd rather you didn't. I still semi-value my eardrums after they survived my death metal stage." Lydia flickers him an odd look. Stiles shrugs unrepentantly. "Death metal isn't death metal unless the screaming nearly kills you."

"See, Stiles, you're definitely not like most boys," Lydia says, and Stiles preens a little until she throws him one of her flattest looks. "Most boys _want_ to make me scream."

Stiles glares at her, and has to take a moment to compose himself. "There's one useful thing we do know about your skills from last year," he says. She looks at him, either for the answer, or just plain surprised that he’s managing coherency after her statement. "That sometimes you set out to drive somewhere for something you need, and end up somewhere entirely different."

"Okay," Lydia says, slowly. "So how about we ditch these losers and go for a drive to somewhere specific, and see if we end up somewhere different?"

"Precisely," Stiles says. "Where do you need to go?"

"I have a dress I wanted to return to the mall," Lydia says. "You'll have to distract me. If I'm consciously focussed on driving, it might not work; my skills, as you might call them, seem limited to my subconscious."

"I'm pretty good at distracting people," Stiles says, semi-modestly.

#

"When I said distract," Lydia says, "I didn't mean regale me with a thousand facts no one needs to know about Star Trek."

"Oh my god," Stiles says, struggling out of her car, nearly landing on the ground. He straightens and brushes gravel fragments off his knees. "Star _Wars_ , Lydia. Star Wars. May the force be with you, Jedi and Sith lords, spherical space stations with spurious flaws _Star Wars_. Wars in space! Among the stars!"

Lydia just gives him an amused look and Stiles falters in his impassioned gesturing.

"You're messing with me," Stiles realizes.

"Yup," Lydia says, smiling gaily. "Now do what boys are good at and carry my bags."

"You're just manipulating my undying affection for you," Stiles informs her. Lydia's grin doesn't lessen any. "Aiden's better for bag carrying."

"Yeah, well," Lydia says, "Aiden's—"

She trails off.

"C'mon. Don't pause in the middle of some werewolf smack talk," Stiles says, "that's always the highlight of my day—"

Lydia elbows him, and Stiles' mouth drops open to jokingly berate her for the violence.

Then he promptly closes it when he sees what she's staring at.

A taped-off crime scene.

And the tense off-center jaw line of Kyle McCall.

So of course Scott's father comes right up to them. Stiles smiles his best shit-eating grin.

"Good afternoon, sunshine," Stiles says.

Kyle doesn't respond to that. Of course. Because he's a barrel of no-fun and posterior-inserted sticks. "What are you doing here?" he demands instead, voice rough and finger pointing thickly at them both.

Stiles snorts. "It's a mall. We're teenagers with credit cards. Do you need me to draw you a roadmap?"

"I'm intrigued," Lydia says, tilting her head so she can't see the crime scene. "Do you antagonize all figures of authority, or just this one?"

"Believe me," Stiles says, still grinning fiercely, anger sluicing through his veins. "This one deserves it."

Kyle bristles, and glares. "I should—"

"Is there a reason you're trying to interrogate my _son_?"

Kyle whips around to see Stiles' dad standing there, arms across his chest, cop face on.

"We've got two eye witnesses who mention a tall three hundred pound figure running from the scene," Dad continues, glaring at Kyle McCall with all the dislike that Stiles feels. "These two barely make two sixty between them."

"Two seventy one," Lydia says, demurely. "I gained back the pounds I lost while running naked around the forest." She smiles disarmingly at Kyle. "I think it's done wonders for my ass."

"Oh, my god," Stiles whines at the back of his throat.

"C'mon, you two," Dad says, putting a hand on each of their shoulders and turning them around. "I'll escort you back to your car."

"But we only just got here," Stiles splutters.

Dad shoves him a bit harder. "Do you want to continue down that path and have me mention how you should both still be at school?

"We're totally good as we are," Stiles hurries to assure him. "Hey, does this one have the mark on their forehead?"

Dad gives him a sharp sideways glance. Oh. Maybe Stiles isn't supposed to know that.

"No," Dad says, uncomfortably. "All we know so far as that there's a pattern of puncture wounds. We won't know more until the post-mortem, but…"

"But?" Lydia prompts as they reach her car.

"But the body seemed to be drained of blood," Dad admits, his shoulders tensing oddly. "Have either of you—I mean. Is it anything, y'know. Grrr-argh." His hands do a little zombie motion.

"Grr-argh," Stiles repeats, a little wildly.

"Mr. Argent's been trying to teach me some of the appropriate vocabulary to mask the truth about—" Dad gestures awkwardly. Stiles grimaces. He's obviously trying his best, but the whole supernatural world of fun and miscellany doesn’t seem to be settling well into his dad’s worldview.

"Since when have you been talking to Chris Argent?" Stiles asks.

"Has anyone told you that your accusatory tone is irritating?" Dad asks.

"It's his interrogatory tone," Lydia corrects. "And yes. Multiple times."

“That question was definitely accusatory,” Dad says.

"I don't know why I like either of you," Stiles mutters. "Probably Stockholm Syndrome."

"Don't be ridiculous," Lydia says. "That's a psychological phenomenon requiring you to exhibit empathy and sympathy for your captors. Skills I hope you're not listing at the top of your resume."

"I have a resume?" Stiles says. Dad squints at him. Yeah, maybe Stiles was supposed to have a resume made already to try and find a summer job. Whoops.

"I started talking to Chris Argent because I tried to ask my friend Deaton about it," Dad says, instead of opening up that can of worms.

"Ah. Well, that's all the explanation I need," Stiles says.

"I asked him to tell me about 'the thing you apparently don't talk about' and I think he told me in roundabout terms about his anal prolapse," Dad says grimly.

Lydia looks interested. Stiles blanches and wonders for not the first time about his taste in people.

"Deaton's pretty much like the dragon in Merlin," Stiles says, knowing his dad will get the reference; they've been working through season one of it in the rare times they get together.

But instead of reassuring his dad that he wasn't alone in thinking Deaton's a cryptic creature, his eyes widen almost comically. "Dragons. Oh hell. Please do not tell me a massive dragon is going to claw its way out of Beacon Hill's underground cave system to burn us all down, because I do not think the insurance plan I have covers that sort of thing."

"Actually," Stiles starts, and then frowns. "Actually I don't know. Dragons could exist, I guess."

"So reassuring," Dad grumbles.

"I haven't seen one either," Lydia says.

"Haven't you been into this, uh, _grrr-argh_ stuff less time than my son?" Dad asks.

"Before I acquir—before Ms Blake _gave_ me her book to translate," Lydia corrects, glaring furiously at Stiles' dad and daring him to argue with her, "I was translating the Argents' beastiary."

"Um," Dad says, squinting at Lydia, "I'm only just starting to get comfortable with werewolves, it's- That's not a topic I feel comfortable discussing with minors, and—"

"Oh my god," Stiles whines, "not you too! It's beastiary, not bestiality, and I do not want to know what you've been thinking."

"Well," his dad says, scratching the back of his neck, "those photos of you with the Hale guy _did_ look kind of—"

"—incriminating," Lydia supplies, helpfully.

"And you could say werewolves classed as—"

" _La la la,_ I'm not listening," Stiles says, sticking his fingers in his ears.

"That won't help," his mom says, loud like she's in his brain, "you can't block out the truth. Derek's an animal. Werewolves are animals. They’re _all_ animals."

Stiles full body spasms, and there's a sound like whistling in his ears – he unblocks his ears and shakes his hands like he's shaking something away, and whirls backwards, but he can't see her. His mouth is open, like he was trying to say her name but couldn't.

"Son?" Dad asks, gently.

Stiles blinks rapidly, and wrinkles his mouth guiltily. "I. Uh. Y'know. Stuff." He gestures eloquently at thin air.

Dad's mouth sets into a firm heavy line. "Lydia, get my boy home safe," he says, in his no-nonsense tone. "I'd appreciate it if you stayed with him for a while."

"I'm not a kid, I don't need babysitting—" Stiles starts to instantly protest.

"Of course," Lydia says, the stinking traitor.

Dad nods, gestures at the crime scene to indicate where he needs to be, and he makes to leave.

"Dad," Stiles blurts, and his dad turns, frowning. "I know you said I'm not to be involved with investigating the deaths—"

"For a good reason," Dad says, and he crosses his arms across his chest. "You opened my eyes to the things really going on around here, and I'm grateful for that, I am. But while I have a hunter in town who gives me free advice at any time, and the law on my side, you can let me do my job. Protecting people's _my_ job, kiddo. Yours is to finish growing up."

"Just answer me one thing, _please_ ," Stiles says.

Dad sighs. "Make it quick."

"The deaths, with the marks on the forehead," Stiles says, gesturing at his own forehead, which is mercifully blank – well, barring the jagged cut on his forehead from his head's intimate encounter with the steering wheel on the night of the lunar eclipse, when Jennifer's magicked-up fog caused him to crash, because he misses his Jeep like _whoa_. "There's been more of those while Peter's been in custody, right?"

Dad looks torn, like he's not going to answer, but Lydia's expression goes quietly desperate, melting something in his dad's tense expression. His dad nods, and Stiles sags, sadly.

It would have been so _neat_ if Peter had been behind everything. And easy. The idea that there's someone, some _thing_ else out there…

Dad gives him a weak smile, and turns his back on them, heading off to the crime scene again. Stiles stays quiet until he's gone.

"What is it?" Lydia says.

Stiles looks at her. "Hm?"

"You're never quiet this long," Lydia says. "Unless there's something up."

"Since when have you been such an expert on the behavioral tics of Stiles Stilinski?" Stiles asks moving over to the passenger side of the car, and missing his Jeep as he moves. Missing the _freedom_.

"Maybe I always have been," Lydia says, and Stiles squints at her across the top of the car, mouth hanging open. "Or maybe I'm making a calculated guess."

"You scare me," Stiles lies, and then shakes his head. "It's just… Dad said he would do his best to stop me knowing as much about the dead bodies as possible. But he can't help showing his hand a little more than he just did."

"Such as?"

"All the dead bodies, the Alpha marked ones… We can presume some of them must have been killed in an alley, like near Macklebee's salon."

"Yeah," Lydia says, kicking at an imaginary pebble on the ground, not looking Stiles in the eye.

"But the rest—Dad can't hide when he gets emergency calls," Stiles says. "They've all been at night. So the pattern's in the dark, or in a hidden place."

"So?" Lydia asks. "What does that boil down to?"

In the distance, over by the crime scene, Victoria Argent smiles at him. He looks back at his dad's head moving amongst the yellow banner, trying not to look too disquieted.

"Either the rabid werewolves are getting braver," Stiles says, the fear he's feeling in his gut reflected on her face, flickering like cold, icy flames of impending doom, "or they're not the only murderous creatures in town."


	6. Chapter 6

 

**Chapter Six**

_“I don't like work—no man does—but I like what is in the work—the chance to find yourself. Your own reality—for yourself not for others—what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means.”_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

"Hypothetically there is lore on things that might drive Omegas mad," Deaton says, squinting at a pair of X-Rays that look exactly the same to Stiles. Actually, they kinda look like the same X-Rays that have been there for the last two years, but Stiles isn’t exactly the King of Great Life Decisions, so he can't judge.

"Most of it relies on certain artefacts," Deaton continues. "Relics that are said to have a particular draw, powerful enough to overwrite the human control, enough to bring the animal part of the brain to the front. Some lore substitutes artefact for flora. But whatever the text, they all agree that they're very rare. I've certainly not heard of one in this continent for the last decade."

"So either the Nemeton's making them crazy all on its own, there's a very rare plant or artefact out there driving them mad, or…" Stiles frowns.

"Or your original hypothesis is right, and we have some… other visitors in town," Deaton says, heavily.

"Awesome," Stiles says.

Deaton shrugs. "It might be terrifying, but you forget, Mr. Stilinski – we have an ace in the hand."

"A True Alpha," Stiles says, and Deaton turns to share a smile. "Do you—"

"Enough questions. I happen to be a master of procrastination myself. I was a teenager once too, you know." Deaton's placid smile is reflected in the metallic rim of the light box.

"Lies," Stiles says, because the idea of Deaton as a kid is kind of disturbing him right now; he has knowledge beyond his years. "You were born fully formed into an adult."

“There is plenty of lore on that topic I can direct you to,” Deaton says. “Like the Finnish myth of Väinämöinen, who stayed in his mother’s womb until he was old and grey, before emerging fully formed. I can give you that reading if you’d prefer theory over practice—”

"I’ll keep with the ash,” Stiles says, quickly.

“How surprising,” Deaton says, in a tone which implies he isn’t surprised at all.

Stiles scowls, takes another handful of mountain ash, and breathes in deep. Throw it in a circle. Yeah. He can do this. He's going to be the best emissary on the block. Scott will look to _him_ for support in meetings. He opens his eyes, and ignores the way Heather's staring in through the window, and throws the ash up into the air.

Deaton's sigh is audible as the dust covers the place again.

"I can't do this." Stiles moves to rub his eyes, then remembers he's covered in mountain ash still, and he heads over to the sink grumpily, shaking dust off his shoes.

"All right," Deaton says. "Give me your hypothesis. Why do we learn to disperse the ash into a circle?"

"Because it's quicker than putting your hand out and spinning around with it?" Stiles asks.

"But the ash line isn't a perfect circle when you do it that way," Deaton asks. He looks over his shoulder. "Think again."

"Because… circles are a mystical shape. They don't appear anywhere in nature, not naturally, so they were co-opted as a sign of pure humanity." Stiles shrugs. "It's the most unnatural shape you can create?"

"In a way," Deaton admits. "What are emissaries to werewolf packs?"

"Important," Stiles says. "You supply information, when it's needed. You… provide balance."

"And where was Ms. Baccari correct in her summarisation of our function?"

"You're—" Stiles starts, and swallows. "We're overlooked."

"Right," Deaton says. "So why do we learn to disperse the mountain ash into a circle?"

Stiles shakes his head, a little lost. "Because it's quick? No point being showy if no one's ever going to notice?"

Deaton's smile is slow and almost sly. "Almost correct."

Stiles turns from the sink, heading to pick up his now trusty friend, the industrial vacuum cleaner that Scott named Betty last year, because back then he thought it would be the only girl he'd get to spend time with while in high school.

Back then, they'd craved adventure and excitement. _Be careful what you wish for_.

"You do it _because_ it's showy," Stiles says, slowly. "Because… that's when people notice us. The moments when we're instantly useful, not the times we're putting in hours of legwork to find out one useful fact. So for the one moment when all eyes are on us…"

"For that one second," Deaton says, his sly smile turning into a smirk, "you get to be the most melodramatic one in the room." The amusement in his voice lowers to something more serious. "You remind them how dangerous someone like us could be."

Stiles' hair bristles on the back of his neck; he remembers the Darach's real face, and the way she crumpled his dad's badge like it was nothing but paper.

Emissaries could be _beyond_ dangerous, straight into the realm of psychosis.

"Try it again," Deaton says. "But pretend you have an audience."

"I already _have_ an audience," Stiles mutters, nodding across at the window, where Heather's standing, pushing her forehead against the glass, her eyes trained on him. She looks angry. Deaton said some protection in the clinic repelled them from coming in, but the ghosts have definitely been coming closer and closer to the clinic.

 _They're getting stronger_ , he thinks, and can't fully suppress the shiver.

"They'll tempt you," Deaton says, following Stiles' empty gaze to the window.

"She wants me to stop," Stiles says, even though Heather hasn't said anything; her expression is clearer than words. "I'm kind of taking that as a big honking _you're doing the right thing_ neon sign."

Deaton looks at Stiles. "Picture an audience you want to impress," he instructs this time.

Stiles nods, reaches for a new handful of ash, and moves into the empty space of the room. Melodrama. He can totally do melodrama. He could ace that class without studying for it. But who would he most want to show off in front of?

Lydia, obviously. He closes his eyes to picture her standing in the doorway. He knows her perfectly. Strawberry blonde, five foot three, green eyes—Green eyes watching him, cautious, not showing much emotion, keeping things under wrap, just observing, taking in the scene before making his move—

And it's not Lydia watching in his mind. It's Derek. Tense and on edge, eyes locked on Stiles' movements. Watching. Waiting for him to mess up, waiting to rush in and protect the poor defenseless human, but Derek wouldn't be an ass about that; their tally of saving each other tended to stay on an even keel. Werewolves needed humans around, to cut off their arms and keep them above water and manipulate mountain ash.

Stiles doesn't need protecting. He can protect himself.

In Stiles' imagination, Derek watches him silently, face impassive. Stiles inhales evenly, counting mentally to ten before pitching the dust up into the air. A rush of emotion courses through his blood. He wants to show off. He wants to show Derek what he can do. That he's a worthy person. That he's more than just an idiot kid used by a psychopathic woman to infiltrate Derek’s life.

That he's more than the darkness in his heart.

His hand is up in the air before he even knows it, and he stretches his fingers out to their fullest, like he's reaching up for his salvation, and when he opens his eyes, the dust falls around him in a perfect circle.

Stiles looks across at Deaton excitedly.

"Now try it again," Deaton says. "It's not an achievement unless you can manage to do it more than once."

"Don't harsh my squee," Stiles says, looking down at his perfect circle of mountain ash. "Today is a day to celebrate, my man."

Deaton just looks at Stiles with an expression like he's just tried to eat a lemon. Apparently he's not Stiles' man. Whatever. Deaton could do worse. Stiles attempts a little dance, but Deaton just rolls his eyes and turns back to his X-Ray, muttering, "When you've finished dancing poorly, don't forget to clean up.”

Stiles glares at Deaton's back, but he resentfully scuffs the circle open, and is reaching over for the dustpan and brush when the door bursts open.

"You should totally hail the conquering heroes," Scott yells, pushing Allison and Lydia through the door in front of him. Then he stops, mid-way. "Oh, hey Dr. D. Sorry for the noise."

"It's quite all right," Deaton says, smiling almost fondly. "If I'm going for candid honesty, it's nice to have a pack around again to annoy me." He levels a look at Stiles. "That isn't blanket permission to be noisy."

" _Would_ I?" Stiles says, putting on his best affronted look. Actually, he is kind of peeved; he's been relatively quiet recently. Mostly due to the noisy ghosts and the constant stream of headaches, which he'd kind of hoped would go away a little after getting that okay night of sleep the other day. Then again, it seems to have been a fluke: last night was closer to two hours of rest again.

"My powers worked," Lydia blurts out. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are shining; she really _is_ excited to be showing emotion like that. "I didn't even have to have a weird unexplainable craving. Mr. Argent was teaching me how to meditate, and _bam_."

"And Allison took out the Omega from like, _four hundred feet_. I'm not even _kidding_." Scott bounces on his feet.

"I nearly shot the kid he was about to eat," Allison says, feebly trying to mask her awesome success. "But on a plus side, Dad was so impressed, he's decided to take me to the October Travelling Fair." She pulls a wry face. “We haven’t done anything together recently that _hasn’t_ been training.” She chews at her lower lip, twisting one foot beneath her, and she looks up at them from beneath her eyelashes. “Is it super dorky that I’m excited to go to something with my dad?”

“Yes,” Stiles says. Scott elbows him sharply.

“It’s nice,” Scott says. “And heaven knows recent events have made us all more aware how precious time with family is.”

There’s quiet for a moment, Stiles looking sheepishly at Allison.

"You can count _me_ out of going," Lydia mutters. "That fair is two weeks of freaking _creepy_.”

"Horror's awesome," Allison says. "Especially when it's _not happening to you._ "

Lydia considers it. "I just think I've had enough of being scared for a lifetime."

"Oh, dude, _we_ should go to that," Stiles says to Scott. "Harley's got a job as a scarer."

"Harley?" Scott blinks. "Wow. Yeah, I can see her being good at that." He gives Stiles an odd glance. "I didn't know you still hung out with her."

"I didn't know you'd stopped," Stiles says.

Scott flickers a glance in Allison's direction, and he does look a little guilty. "Guess I've been distracted."

"And rightfully so," Stiles says, because Scott's shoulders have drooped a little, and he hates the idea that he's made Scott sad. "You said something about another Omega?"

"Yeah. The Omega was totally out of control," Scott says. "Like it was… _rabid_." He shivers, visibly.

Stiles can't help but inwardly deflate. He managed to be a show-off and throw dust in a circle while his friends were out _saving the life of a kid._ Still, there's more to think about than being selfishly sorry for himself. "But.. _another_ one? In so short a time? After the patrol showed up nothing?" he questions, because _that's_ the important part.

"Yeah," Allison says, her mouth curling down at the outsides. Scott throws Stiles a fairly resentful look, as if blaming him for taking her happiness away. "Dad thinks it's a first wave. The closest, weakest creatures being pulled by what we did to the Nemeton. They’re coming the shortest way, bypassing other towns; it means they’re coming in too fast to be tracked by our normal methods.”

"Normal methods?" Lydia perks up. "

"There's some maths whiz consulting with Dad over the change in pattern," Allison says. "He'll be roadtesting a new method starting tonight, putting an advance patrol on the borders most likely to be crossed to get to us. It won't stop _every_ Omega getting through, but… it'll minimize the numbers. Which as I proved tonight, I guess we can handle."

Deaton frowns at her for a moment. "Did your… _other_ companion say anything about you taking down the Omega?"

"That's what I'm worried about," Allison says. "That's why I wanted to see you, and make sure—" She chews her bottom lip for a moment. "Kate was _happy_ that I'd done it. That I'd done what she wanted."

Stiles flickers a glance to the window, but Heather's not there.

"When an Omega werewolf goes rabid, there's not much that can be done," Deaton says. "You did what you had to. If I'm making a guess… the dark energy from the Nemeton _would_ cheer on any killing you did, because it sees it as a…"

"As a way of getting to you," Stiles says, thinking bitterly of Julia using _him_ as a template of how to gain Derek's trust. "As a possible way in."

Scott's face crinkles up sadly at that one, and he reaches over to pat Stiles on the shoulder companionably – and flinches back. "Aw, man," Scott whines. Scott may be a True Alpha, but it still takes a lot of energy to push past mountain ash; mostly it still just knocks him back.

"I was about to clean it up," Stiles defends, gesturing at the dustpan and brush he was reaching for.

"Sure you were," Scott says. Stiles rolls his eyes, grabs the pan, and brushes up the dust. "Don't worry about it," Scott says softly, while Allison quizzes Deaton on Omegas, and Lydia leans against the table, closing her eyes and probably trying to find more kids to save. "You'll get the hang of the mountain ash one day soon, I'm sure."

Stiles falters for a moment, accidentally brushing at the dust too hard, sending up a small cloud of it which makes Scott stumble back a pace. At the window, Heather's back, and she's smiling, cruel and satisfied.

He forces himself to smile back at Scott.

"Maybe," Stiles says. Deaton shoots him an almost approving look.

After all, melodrama's always sweeter when no one sees it coming.

#

School is boring on Monday. Not that it isn't boring for Stiles _every_ day, but Mondays are the worst, sad because his morning lessons are woefully lonely; somehow he's managed to secure himself a solid block of subjects that none of his friends picked up. Even seeing Harley is restricted to a wave and a quick hello, even though she's normally in his advanced math class; he makes a mental note to ask her later how she managed to get out of it, because Ms. Parks is notorious for her intolerance to absence notes.

He decides to go outside for lunch because his head hurts, and the neon lighting of the cafeteria just makes the pain worse; he brown bagged it, so he just points at the door and Scott motions with his cutlery that they'll join him outside once they've finished eating.

Isaac's a slow eater, though, and Stiles picks at his PB&J sandwich listlessly, prodding at his phone and resisting the urge to open up his text messages for the thousandth time, because it's _pathetic._ Just because some lousy excuse for a human being thought he was a perfect roadmap into how to flirt with a werewolf doesn't mean he should be crushing miserably on the dude.

Stiles didn't flirt with Derek. He hadn't _ever_ flirted with Derek. Had he?

He remembers goading Derek with that stupid fisting joke, and all those half-innuendos as he tread water and clung to the werewolf’s admittedly very nice abs. It's not exactly _flirting_ if it's not intentional, is it?

Ugh. It's enough to give Stiles a headache, except for the fact that he already has one.

He definitely blames the headache for the text he sends to HALES.

 _Have I ever flirted with you_?

He nearly drops the phone when it buzzes almost instantly.

 _It depends on who you meant to text_ , HALES replies. Cora, of course. Derek's not that fast with technology, and still doesn't know how to turn the caps lock off. Stiles squints down at the words, and sighs, messing with the settings to bring the text up larger; the words are a little blurry. Sleep deprivation messes with vision, he guesses.

 _You, duh,_ Stiles types back, because at the end of the day, he's kind of a troll.

 _Yes_ , Cora replies.

Stiles squints sourly at his phone. Stupid Hales and their stupid ambiguity. He's so busy glaring at the phone that he doesn't even recognize for a few seconds that his phone is actually _ringing._

He hits connect clumsily, startled. "Isn't calling from a different country expensive?" Stiles blurts.

"Hello to you too," Derek says. His voice is thinner than normally, and the sound hiccups, but it's him, it's definitely him. Stiles' palm goes instantly sweaty, the traitor, and Stiles is glad his cell doesn't have the capability to use video chat. "And it's called a phone plan, Stiles. Y'know. When you threaten to rip out the tech support staff with your teeth, and they give you free minutes to call the US from Mexico in return for lack of bloodshed."

Stiles blinks. " _Really_? Threats work?"

"No, dumbass," Derek says. "Dollars work. Sometimes I don't even know how you function in the real world."

Ah, the sweet, sweet sound of being insulted by Derek Hale. "Says the guy who doesn't know how not to text in capital letters."

"You can _turn that off_?" Derek sounds genuinely miffed. "Right. Now Cora's laughing _harder_. What's the opposite of thank you?"

Stiles can semi-hear Cora's choked off cackling in the background, and he smiles involuntarily at it. Cora Hale _laughing_. He wishes fiercely for a moment that he was there to see it.

"Anyway, that's why I called," Derek says, and apparently Stiles just zoned out there without even managing something amiably blank. "No major disaster. I was just wondering what made Cora laugh."

"Mostly my entire existence," Stiles quips, easily. "You could have read the texts."

"I have free minutes on this plan," Derek says. "Receiving texts cost more."

"Oh," Stiles says, and blinks guiltily, thinking of how many texts he's sent their way. "I can stop texting—"

"Don't you dare," Derek says, quickly. "I mean, it's good to know what's going on. With the pack, and everything."

"Yeah," Stiles says, and tries not to sag too obviously that it's purely for practical reasons that Derek is calling. "Well, you can ask them yourself, if you'd like – they're heading over here now. And probably eavesdropping."

"We can test that theory," Derek says, easily. "Does Scott know that his jaw is lopsided?"

"Considering he's flipping my phone the bird from across the yard," Stiles says, "I'm going to guess at yes. How are you both?"

"Good, good," Derek says, sounding distracted. He's lying. Stiles' stomach contracts with the knowledge.

"Meaning…" Stiles prompts.

"Not as bad as evil ghosts and rabid Omegas," Derek allows, "but—I can't _stab_ the current conflict here."

"Conflict?" Stiles asks. There's a sound of a door slamming, and Derek sighs. "Cora," Stiles realizes.

"She wants to stay here," Derek says, and Stiles' stomach plummets. It suddenly doesn't matter that the rest of the Pack are with him now, Scott crowding onto the bench next to him, leg pressed firmly against his so that they can all fit around the table; Stiles feels horribly, painfully alone.

Cora wants to stay in Mexico. Which means Derek will want to stay there too.

"I understand," Derek says. "She's got a Pack here. It's not family, but it's friends. It's good for her. There's a great school, and she _says_ she'll be fine without me, but—"

"Without you?" Stiles' voice hitches a little, and he pulls a face, because Lydia's looking suddenly smug.

"Yeah," Derek says, sounding a little surprised. "It's a no brainer. Cora's my sister and she's part of me, but… I have a lot left to do in Beacon Hills. Of course I'm coming home."

Scott's hand comes down on Stiles' leg, supportively, and Stiles turns to see Scott grinning, wide and bright.

"It'll be good to see you," Scott yells, not even pretending he wasn't listening in. "By the way, Stiles misses you," he adds loudly, and leans over and hits disconnect on the phone before Stiles can respond.

"Oh my _god,_ you suck," Stiles yells, and pulls out his ever-present pouch of mountain ash from his pocket; he doesn't open it, but he bats it at Scott's arm, and Scott flails in a comedic fashion, falling off the bench and landing on his ass.

"My _own pack_ , not coming to my defense?" Scott says dramatically, clutching at his chest as he easily gets up and repositions himself, sitting on the table and putting his feet on the bench, kicking Stiles lightly in the side.

"It's because it's _my_ pack, I told you," Lydia says, pointing at herself. "Alpha Banshee."

"I don't think Banshees _have_ Alphas," Allison says, apologetically.

"Ugh, just because you want the HBIC post," Lydia sniffs, but without heat.

"I can't believe you _did_ that," Stiles says morosely, jabbing sadly at his phone, which doesn't ring again.

Scott, because he's an ass, just pulls the phone away from him. "Candy crush," Scott sing-songs, and then obviously does _not_ go for the app. "And the answer's yes, you did flirt with Cora _and_ Derek."

"I didn't," Stiles says.

"Hey _big guy,_ let's see it, that gigantic fist of yours," Scott says, in a tragic falsetto. Stiles punches him in the arm for it, but Scott just laughs, especially when Stiles' cheeks go pink, because _oh god._ He had not been flirting, he was just being a cocky asshole, there's a _difference._

Except Derek kinda obviously had a _thing_ for assholes, look at his dating track record, and oh my _god._

"That wasn't flirting," Stiles says, more firmly than he feels. He glares in horror at the people around the table. He's starting to think _friends_ is an overly generous descriptor of them. " Not with Derek. Maybe Cora. A little. But that was danger flirting. Because she could take my head off at any second."

"Danger flirting?" Isaac asks, sounding intrigued.

Even with the teasing, this whole conversation's kinda nice; Stiles has been missing this, the easy camaraderie of the pack. They haven't been getting much of a chance to enjoy the quiet times, recently.

"Like danger fapping," Stiles says. "But even more dangerous."

" _Danger_ fapping," Allison says, mouthing the words a second time. "Do I even want to know?"

Scott pulls a face. Stiles smiles brightly, always happy to educate a fellow student on a more colourful way to brighten up a dull class.

"Also known as ninjabating. It's when you masturbate in a perilous situation," Lydia says calmly, looking through her own phone at what looks like pictures of herself. "Like doing it under the desk during a class. Bonus points for attracting the teacher's attention just before completion."

Allison pulls a face. "Seriously? But I mean… none of you have ever tried that, right?"

"Not me," Isaac says.

"Of course not," Scott says, and then considers it. "Mostly because I was severely asthmatic and couldn't have gotten away with it, and post-asthma, I've had a pretty good nose for certain scents, and it's… difficult to get… interested enough at school to try it."

"Being in school never stopped you before, Scott," Allison says, and then freezes, looking at Isaac apologetically.

Isaac squints, and then shrugs. "I guess I like girls that know what they're doing," he says, and looks at Scott cagily, as if wondering if he's gone too far. There's a moment, when Scott's face twitches.

"I wonder if our parents have ever had this conversation," Lydia says, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

"Oh, my god," Stiles says, staring at her in horror. Allison and Isaac both look queasy. Scott looks… remarkably placid. "Dude," Stiles says, smacking him in the arm. "A reaction to the pack banshee going too far??"

"Eh," Scott says, placidly. "I think I'm past being disturbed. My best bro has a crush on Derek Hale, and my dead psychotic uncle keeps telling me to kill myself, I think we're past the point of things being too disturbing."

Stiles lurches to look at Scott in shock; not for the absurd crush thing, but because Scott's actively sharing what Harold's saying to him.

All right, also a little for the crush thing.

"I've _totally_ uh—ninjabated," Stiles says, because getting back to a safer subject for Scott's sake is a necessary and good thing to do. It's just bonus points that it's a lewd conversation matter. "Maybe that's why Harris hated me so much."

"Oh, my _god,_ Stiles, _gross,_ " Scott whines. "Although, now your essay on circumcision in Economics makes so much more sense."

"Harris didn't hate me," Lydia says, pouting thoughtfully for a moment, before humming under her breath and turning back to her selfies.

Stiles blinks, several times in a row, because his brain has just connected those dots, and the dots are _magnificent_.

"I think my brain just broke," Scott says, mournfully sliding off the table and back onto the bench next to Stiles.

Lydia beams at them all, widely. "Self love is an important part of a daily routine to improved health, skin care and stress relief," she says. "You should read more journals, you know. International Perspectives on Sexual and Reproductive Health; The Journal of Sex Research; Journal of Religion and Health; Culture, Health & Sexuality… Those just for a start," she tags on, in explanation as to why she sounds like a walking medical rep.

Yeah, Stiles is pretty sure Lydia wouldn't actually need any sales language to sell people on the joy of masturbation.

"So _Derek_ called," Scott says, and elbows Stiles in the side obnoxiously. "Did you tell him about the county finally taking the Hale house down next week?"

"He called to check up on the pack, not to be even more depressed," Stiles says, shoving Scott back lightly. "It's just—if he comes back—"

"We might have to suffer you _not-_ flirting with him?" Scott says, widening his eyes.

" _No,_ " Stiles says. "But we might have to explore whether he actually wants to come back, or whether it's the Nemeton pulling him in, like the Omegas."

It's not like Stiles is a stranger at being able to one-eighty the mood of a conversation, but this occurrence of it almost gives him whiplash; everyone tenses up almost in unison at the idea of it.

"I've waited so long to develop a superpower, and it's the ability to destroy good moods en masse," Stiles says, rubbing his temples to alleviate some of the ache there. "I'm sorry. It's just—it is something we have to think about. There's a run of dead bodies, and apparently a lot of werewolves in this town—"

"More than you know," a voice interrupts, and Stiles twists his body and his scowl is automatic.

Stiles doesn't even both to hide his scowl. "How do you even _get_ on campus?"

Peter Hale shrugs down at him, hands in the pockets of a long overcoat. "I've always been able to get away with it. It's the prize of being remembered for sporting excellence." He looks back at the building in what's probably meant to be a fond expression, but on Peter it just looks smug and calculating.

All of his expressions span a spectrum from smug to calculating.

"I thought you were still in jail," Scott says. Still pressed up against him, Stiles can feel his best friend's muscles bunching, readying for a fight.

"No thanks to your banshee," Peter says, flickering a look in Lydia's direction. "You should keep your damn pack on a leash." His smirk widens. "Seems like they get in trouble when you let them wander."

Peter looks pointedly over to the corner of the school building, where Aiden and Ethan are… being questioned by Kyle McCall.

"Shit," Scott says, his tone heartfelt, and he pushes himself up to his feet.

Stiles follows automatically, of course he does, and Isaac, Lydia and Allison exchange a glance and hurry behind. Scott's dad already thinks they're a clique, Stiles thinks, so he doesn't even bother to convince the others to stay behind.

"Oh, and here's the _rest_ of the group," Kyle says, turning to face them all. "What a surprise."

At Stiles' side, Scott's right hand trembles into a fist. "Do you have a problem with my friends? Because I have a problem with that."

"Just asking some questions," Kyle says, his voice light. He looks over to Lydia and Stiles, expression calculating. "I just wanted to know if these fine gentleman knew where Ms. Martin was last night."

" _Me_?" Lydia blurts, and looks angry at herself for losing her cool a little.

Allison loops her arm into Lydia's. "She was with me."

"For how long?" Kyle asks.

"Do you have permission to be questioning underage students without their parents or a lawyer present?" Stiles asks.

Kyle turns his cool expression in Stiles' direction. "Do I _need_ that? Because that makes it seem like you teens have something to _hide_ , and that wouldn't be the case, would it?"

"Oh, fuck you, too," Scott mutters.

"What did you just say?" Kyle says, sharply.

"Nothing," Scott says loudly, gritting his teeth.

"When did you leave?" Kyle asks Allison.

"About 10pm," Allison says, rolling her eyes.

"And then I told you," Aiden says, butting in. "She was with me. _All night long_."

Kyle squints accusingly in Aiden's direction, and it's a weak expression, especially in contrast to Lydia's glare. If Lydia's powers were in her glares instead of in her screams, Kyle would be nothing but a pile of ash and bones.

"We don't need to tell him anything," Lydia says, folding her arms across her chest, and yeah, Stiles needs to be ready to cause a distraction. She's _furious._ And overly defiant. Which means she probably _wasn't_ with Aiden, and in her annoyance she's more likely to let something slip which will harm her later.

"We're just wasting your time," Stiles says.

"Right," Scott says, and pushes into his dad's personal space, brimming with righteous rage. "Stiles is _right._ Instead of going out there to find the crazy serial killer carving up people's _faces_ —"

"—how do you even know that if you're—" Kyle interrupts.

"— instead you're in a high school, bullying some kids," Scott glares. "Great job, dad. Well done."

The sarcasm is thick and sharp, and Kyle poorly suppresses a flinch. "This one's different," Kyle says. "This one has eight puncture wounds in the back of the neck, and his clothes were missing. He was last seen in a Beacon Cove High Lacrosse shirt. So yeah, I naturally came to the school which has had the longest lacrosse rivalry with Beacon Cove High. Especially considering you seem to have… unsavory sorts around here."

Kyle's gaze goes over Scott's shoulder, and they all turn to see him glaring suspiciously at Peter.

Peter, who is still standing conspicuously by their table. Kyle will have seen that. But if Peter just got out of jail, even last night… the eight puncture wounds aren't his style. Stiles would believe the wannabe Alpha mark as his domain, but Peter's been in jail, and those bodies have just kept coming.

Nope, this is probably all stuff attracted by the Nemeton.

Kyle McCall's _right_ about who to suspect as the real reason for the deaths happening in Beacon Hills. He'll just never find anything in the law books that he can arrest them for.

And shit. _Shit._ That's right, though. Stiles is to blame. Scott and Allison and him—their sacrifice is what is bringing all the extra stuff to Beacon Hills.

They're the reason why people are dying.

"Getting it now, aren't you?" Kate Argent hisses in his ear, her fingers curling over his shoulder, her face leaning in close to him. She's there, but she's not _really_ there, and he can't feel her touching him, but his skin crawls like she really is standing next to him. "Not just dear mama that you killed, you hyperactive little _bastard_."

Stiles channels some of his self-loathing into glaring at Kyle McCall, steadfastly not looking to his right, where he can see a glimpse of Kate's wavy brown hair, and her cruel twisted smile.

"Tell me," Kate says, "how far down this fault tree of yours do you think you really belong? Down near the roots with Deucalion, I reckon. Your trail of dead bodies is turning out to be longer than his."

Stiles can't let the ghosts affect his concentration. He ends up in way too many dangerous, life-threatening situations to risk drifting off. He forces himself to ignore Kate's taunts.

The rest of the world doesn't know Stiles is wrestling with ghosts; it carries on without him.

"If I didn't already have a surfeit of paperwork, I might be tempted to call a lockdown and get you arrested again," Kyle McCall yells over to Peter. Peter just smirks, loosely salutes, and is _way_ too calm as he saunters off.

"Stay away from that man," Kyle warns Scott. "I don't like him."

"No one likes him," Stiles assures Kyle. He looks over his shoulder to see Peter, and Peter's a little blurry, actually; Stiles blinks a few times to get him back into focus, but Peter's gone before Stiles can see him looking grumpy. Stiles is pretty sure Peter's probably looking moody right now. Ha. Werewolf superhearing apparently has its downsides; namely listening in on people talking smack about you behind your back.

Stiles turns back to see Kyle's gaze on him.

"What, no scorching quip?" Kyle asks, and then his tense shoulders loosen a little, and he stares at Stiles. "Seriously, Stilinski. Are you okay?"

"Huh?" Stiles frowns. "Uh. My eyes have been going a little wacky today." He waves a hand to illustrate the blurriness.

"It could be a migraine," Kyle says. "But you should go see an optometrist just in case."

"Insert some crappy joke here about you finally trying to act fatherly and it's _to the wrong kid,_ " Stiles snarks half-heartedly, because his head hurts too much for anything better.

"He's kind of got a point," Scott offers. Stiles glares, and Kyle looks proud, until Scott adds, "And so does _he,_ " pointing at Stiles.

"Well as fun as it is to stay here and chat," Kyle says, "I have some more teenagers to chat to." He levels a look at Scott. "Found some trespassing in an old movie theater downtown. But I'm sure you know nothing about that, right, even though Ms. Martin's car was spotted nearby?" Kyle smirks at them, and walks off, disappearing into the main building before they can come up with a witty comeback.

"What a jerk," Stiles says, almost on auto-pilot rubbing his head, "we should—" He turns to Scott to suggest something, but he forgets what he was going to finish that sentence with when he sees the expression on the werewolves' faces.

"Peter's still here," Isaac says. "He just—"

"He's gone now," Aiden says, reassuring Lydia.

"But there's something to worry about," Lydia says, glaring between the werewolves angrily. "What is it?"

"He said that we've got something new to worry about," Scott says, sighing heavily. "The eight marks… it's what an incubus leaves on their prey."

"An incubus," Stiles repeats, flatly. "A freaking _sex_ demon? They're _real_?" He rubs his forehead again. "And people wonder why I have a headache."

"We can ask Deaton about it tonight after school," Scott says. "He'll know what to do."

Stiles frowns at Scott, wishing he had his best friend's faith in the future.

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

**Chapter Seven**

_“You know I hate, detest, and can't bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appals me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies - which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world - what I want to forget.”_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

Stiles manages to survive until about halfway through history class before his headache – and Kate's taunting from the corner – makes it impossible to concentrate, and the fatigue and pain must show on his face, because Mr. Westover's replacement Ms. Zhu gives him a hall pass to go to the nurse without argument.

Instead of going to the nurse he ditches, no point wasting a perfectly good hall pass, and heads to the parking lot before remembering his Jeep is still in the shop, goddamned kanima murdering the only fast mechanic in town. There's a bus due in a few minutes, so Stiles heads for the one with the route covering the eastern part of town; there's no point going out to the city, and besides, if Dr. Mietek finds out he went to a different optometrist, there'll be hell to pay later. Dr. Mietek was his mom's eye-doctor, and if it turns out that Stiles _does_ need glasses, well... he can't think of anyone he'd rather go to.

There aren't any appointments, and Dr. Mietek's out, but there's been a cancellation for Wednesday morning, and Rosemary manages to squeeze him in. Stiles leaves the building feeling a little better, even with the headache a constant offbeat rhythm at the back of his skull.

He's busy contemplating going back to school for last period as he goes around the back of the building to the appropriate bus stop when he sees Lydia, and Stiles' stomach drops.

Once upon a time, that sensation would be due purely to seeing her, but not this time: those feelings are still there, fond and twisted up around other memories of the last year, but stronger still are the _implications_ of her being there.

The implications of a banshee sitting on the bench at the bus stop he was just headed to.

"Please don't tell me you were meditating in history," Stiles says, slipping his appointment card in his pocket. "Or that you were on your way to conservation biology and found yourself here?"

"I thought you _wanted_ to see the dead bodies before the cops," Lydia says, and tilts her head. "And how do you know my schedule? Wait—Don't even answer that."

"I memorized everyone's schedule," Stiles says. "We kind of have a friendship group where noticing missing people is a good skill."

"Hence why I'm actually here," Lydia says. "I asked Sofia in the office to let me check the nurse's log. And when you weren't there, I asked Scott which optometrist you would be most likely to go to."

Scott knew Dr. Mietek as well as Stiles did; his right eye was always weaker than his left, at least pre-werewolf, and Melissa used to get Scott to come with Stiles on their trips to see him – Melissa wanted Scott comfortable with the environment just in case he ended up needing glasses.

"How did you know I'd come here? And not be doing something else?" Stiles asks, crossing his arms defensively.

Lydia shrugs elegantly. "Because no one gets under your skin like Scott's dad does."

Stiles concedes the point.

"So did they find anything wrong with your eyesight?" Lydia asks, because she doesn't shy away from asking the straight questions.

"They didn't have an appointment free until Wednesday," Stiles says. "So I guess I played hooky for nothing." He draws up alongside her. "I'm stuck on the bus, but I can walk you back to the school?"

"Nah," Lydia says. "Why waste a good afternoon free from Beacon Hills High?"

" _You,_ " Stiles says, looking at her in surprise, "want to cut school _again_?"

Lydia shrugs. "I'm half a semester ahead on my workload. I can spare a couple of hours here and there."

"Half a— I shouldn't be surprised," Stiles says. He squints at the sun, as if he can gauge the time from its position but it's a skill his mom had and didn't have time to teach him. "Coffee?" Something ripples in the back of his mind, some general amusement for his third grade self, when he manages the suave suggestion.

"Something decaf for you, I think," Lydia says, and Stiles' third grade self cheers a little. The feeling doesn't settle through his whole body like he thinks it should.

"Stimulants are good for kids with ADHD," Stiles says, and starts walking in the direction of the nearest Starbucks, because he might be a hipster sell-out, but _pumpkin spiced lattes_. He's written odes to them before, mostly to the tune of the pina colada song.

"It encourages dopamine increase," Lydia says, "allowing your neurotransmitters the time to bind to the receptors."

" _Exactly my point,_ " Stiles points out, following Lydia as she makes a left turn up the sidewalk away from Starbucks. The voice inside his head (his _own,_ thank goodness) singing the glory of pumpkin-flavored coffee quiets. Oh well, the Beanerie on Church Drive is probably just as good for his caffeine-intake.

"But you've already had your Adderall dose today," Lydia says, "and probably a dose too many, considering how skittish you are."

"I'm _naturally_ energetic," Stiles says.

"Ahuh," Lydia says. "You've had enough stimulants, Stilinski. A nice herbal tea will do you. It might be better for your insomnia, too."

"Wait a second—" Stiles starts, because he _knows_ he hasn't been whining about his insomnia, "how did you—?"

"The massive bags under your eyes, dumbass," Lydia says, hurrying along and sparing him one withering glance. "It's called concealer if you don't want people to pick up on it, and even _then_ it wouldn't escape my notice."

"I'm not going to wear make-up just because—" Stiles stops his sentence right there. "Wait, you'd notice?"

"Of course," Lydia says, and Stiles' mind is kind of blown, he's not gonna lie. Werewolves he took in his stride. Ghosts, sure. Lydia Martin _noticing him._

Lydia Martin noticing him, and Stiles isn't a puddle of non-functioning drool on the floor.

 _What_.

Oh, well. Stiles is pretty certain he doesn't need his mind anyway. It hasn't really been helping him much recently, that's for sure.

Lydia takes another left, and Stiles sighs. There's only one coffee place down this street, and it _sucks._

"Are we going to the Java Stop? Because really, I think they mix tar in with their coffee beans, and that's in the good stuff," Stiles says, a little hesitant to question Lydia's usual certainty.

"No, we're going to Starbucks, idiot," Lydia says, "because if—"

She trails off, and they both freeze. They probably look really ridiculous, Stiles thinks, from an outsider's perspective. He can feel his own eyes are comically wide, and Lydia's eyelashes are fanned to their widest, her small frame tensing immediately.

"Dammit, _dammit,_ " Lydia turns so she can see the sidewalk as far as she can in both directions. "Just because you've started to master meditation as a tool for activating these freaky powers, Martin, doesn't mean the regular shit doesn't work."

There's a frustrated undercurrent to her tone, and a breathy rasp that Stiles can suddenly picture her using a lot, while she's studying on her own. Berating herself for not knowing something, for not picking up the information quickly enough. He's hit by the oddest memory from the past, of during seventh grade, accidentally wandering across Jackson Whittemore in the forest, angrily practicing lacrosse throws like he could save the world if he could throw the ball sixty feet into a sixty ounce paint can.

Jackson and Lydia are more alike than Stiles has ever really let himself think, because then he would have to admit he doesn't have a chance, and now—Now he'd maybe have to admit that he doesn't want it.

That's a revelation that's been dawning on him slowly since their kiss in the locker room.

It should have been everything he ever wanted. It _should_ have been all his life goals, fulfilled, in her mouth pressed warm and hot against his. It should have been angels swooning and violins singing and birds breaking out into the hallelujah chorus.

The real thing that had shocked him out of his panic attack was how Lydia's kiss _wasn't_ the perfect moment of fireworks he'd been imagining for so long.

No, Lydia's not perfect. And maybe Stiles has been shoving her up on his pedestal because—Because—

Because then he doesn't have to risk rejection.

He doesn't actually have to risk opening his heart to someone, and going through the pain his dad did when they lost Mom.

"When _you killed her,_ " Victoria Argent's voice says, and Stiles' face whips to one side, but she's not there.

Sometimes the ghosts are just voices, after all.

And man, Stiles' mind _is_ completely gone; his body's thrumming with panic, with _flight-flight-flight_ buzzing under his skin, but that's the problem – which way do they run? He fumbles in his pocket, fingers closing over his pouch of mountain ash, and he looks to Lydia for the information.

"Which way do we go?" Stiles asks, keeping his voice as low and level as he can. She's fidgeting, wringing her hands, her pretty eyes flickering between either end of the street like she can't decide.

"I don't know," Lydia says, and damn if those words aren't frightening coming out of her mouth. "I don't—Mr. Argent gave me all these medication techniques, but the adrenaline's too much for me to fight past—"

"Then don't," Stiles says, and he leans in, taking her by the shoulders and forcibly turning her in his direction. He looks into her eyes, and breathes, making the motion overt, getting her to match her breathing to his. "Don't fight it. You have other methods of reaching your powers."

"I could scream and lure whatever it is to us," Lydia says, her voice wobbling. "I could—We could head one way, but if it's the wrong way—" She's panicking again, her breathing accelerating.

Stiles lifts one of his hands to gesture a little. "Breathe in, and out. Hold it in for four, out for eight. C'mon Lydia. Calm down."

"Someone could be dying—" Lydia says. "Someone—"

"And we can try and stop that," Stiles says. " _If you calm down._ " He reaches for his phone, and thumbs open his messages, texting all of the pack with their location and "911", their super-sneaky agreed code for _trouble_. And grrr-argh is his dad's code for supernatural trouble. Oh, god, they all need a new code, stat. "You did it with just a taste the other day. Can you taste anything?"

"No," Lydia snaps, as Stiles hits _send_ on the text. And then her eyes snap firmly to Stiles', instead of darting all over the place. "Yes. _Yes_." Her tongue darts out from her mouth for a moment, before she swallows audibly, and her eyebrows knot as she thinks about what she's tasting. "Strawberry ice-cream. Definitely strawberry ice-cream."

"There's a Dairy Queen three blocks from here," Stiles says, "but the—"

"Not Dairy Queen strawberry," Lydia says, tugging at his sleeve. "Not icecream made from real strawberry; the kind that's made from the powder, that tastes like—chalk." Her eyes dart across Stiles' face like she can derive the answer from his moles. "The last time I had that was with mom and dad. At my last birthday. Before their divorce."

"I remember that," Stiles says. "Mostly because I was the only kid not invited."

Lydia winces, but Stiles shakes his head. Now's not the time.

"Just down here," Stiles says, because he knows the place – he passed it and sulked about it for at least a month. "Definitely down this way—" He gestures down the street. "I texted for help, but—"

"No time," Lydia says, and starts to run. Which is probably a paranormal power that Stiles needs to add to his new book manuscript – tentatively entitled _Dealing With the Supernatural_ _for Idiots_ – in the category of Banshee powers: _running in heels_. Seriously. Stiles has to push himself hard to keep up with her, and he's in sneakers.

"Not that I don't have endless faith in your brilliant brain," Stiles manages as they run, "but what are we going to do if there's a huge _group_ of things at the end of your magic tastebuds?"

"Turn around and run in the opposite direction," Lydia says. "You can scream too, if it makes you feel better."

"Thanks for the permission," Stiles says, but a sound pierces the air. "Sounds like someone's beaten me to it," he says. Lydia, impossibly, speeds _up_. "How are you so fast?"

Lydia tosses him a grin. "Black Friday sales. Just because Daddy's guilt stretches to a lot of zeroes on my credit card limit doesn't mean a girl can't be prudent with her purchases."

As they round the corner, they see it – down an alley, something's approaching a terrified woman, who's curled up on the ground.

"Guess that's one of those rabid werewolves," Lydia says, "and we're not going to be fast enough."

She stops running, and Stiles is about to ask her why slowing down is going to help them get to the woman, when his voice is drowned out.

Because Lydia's _screaming_.

It's loud, so loud that even Stiles has to cover his ears, and he cowers a little as her mouth widens and her scream goes high pitched, and Stiles swears he can almost _feel_ the displacement of her voice, and then he has to stumble forwards – because her scream's managed to do something else, too.

The windows in the buildings around them crack, and then _smash,_ splintering inwards in a discordant chorus of sound.

Lydia's scream comes to an end, and Stiles looks up – ears ringing – to see the rabid werewolf rolling on the ground in agony.

"I'm glad it's just one," Stiles says, and starts running towards the werewolf. He pulls out his pouch of mountain ash, and deftly tugs it open, fingers sliding around the dry powder inside.

"What are you _doing_?" Lydia hisses, her tone implying madness, which is totally hypocritical, because _she's_ the one that led them here.

"What I have to," Stiles yells back, and takes in the scene. It's not the nicest part of Beacon Hills; half the buildings around here are bricked up, and the buildings are tall enough that it's in semi-darkness. The werewolf – dressed in an overlarge overcoat and baggy jeans that pool around his scruffy boots – isn't so gone as to be trying this in open, with witnesses.

The woman screams again, and the werewolf steps closer, a panting sound coming from his mouth that Stiles can hear as he approaches.

"Hey!" Stiles yells, finally wrenching the werewolf's attention from its prey. The werewolf turns to look at him; he's as wolfed out as an Omega can get, with hair sticking out in every direction, and he's uglier than _Isaac_ wolfed-out, which is – sorry, Isaac – definitely saying something.

"Come pick on someone your own size," Stiles finishes, drawing himself up to his full height.

The werewolf's eyes narrow, flashing blue. It's killed before. Stiles glares it down, even when it straightens up, and damn, it had been hunching over the woman – he's a good foot taller than Stiles.

And he's _fast._ Really fast. So much so that Stiles has to adjust his throw –

– but not fast _enough_.

Lydia's watching, and the woman is watching, and there's a werewolf streaking towards him in a Beacon Hills backstreet alley, and Stiles can do melodrama in this moment, oh yeah.

But he doesn't throw the dust around himself.

The werewolf slams into a wall of nothing as the mountain ash settles down onto the ground _around it._

"Ha!" Stiles yells, the familiar joy of mountain ash success bubbling up through his veins. He does a victory dance on the spot, and the werewolf snarls, spittle flying everywhere, as Lydia hurries around to the woman cowering behind.

"What the he—" the woman blurts, as Lydia guides her around the contained werewolf.

"Drugs," Lydia says, "It's terrible. We've already called the cops. Best to go run and hide for now, just in case."

The woman doesn't even stop to ask if Lydia and Stiles are going to be okay – she just runs. Stiles throws the woman a judgemental glance, but turns back to the werewolf.

"My Alpha will end you," the werewolf hisses, more spit accompanying its words. Stiles takes a step back, and feels Lydia come behind him.

"Yeah, well my Alpha will rip _your_ Alpha limb from limb," Stiles taunts, "and maybe eat him for dinner. _Raw._ " He looks at Lydia. "Can you call Allison? I kinda don't want my dad to have to worry over me skipping school, and I don't know who else would have the resources to… clean up this problem."

"I'll call Chris directly," Lydia says, already pressing the call button on her cell, before Stiles can even question _when_ Lydia got his number. And how comfortable she is using his first name. Ugh.

Chris Argent, predictably, is semi-holding out on them, because he's suspiciously within two blocks of the scene already, gracefully exiting his car with a weapon already in his hand, like it's an extra limb. Stiles suspects he has some sort of werewolf radar that he's not letting on about. If it wasn't for his tangled relationship with werewolves, Stiles might have Chris on his suspect list, but that's one thing all of them know for sure – the Argents (excepting Gerard) have a documented history of preferring death over becoming a werewolf, and Chris is definitely a traditional code-following Argent. More than that, he's Allison's dad, and actually is a pretty good guy when he's not running around the woods in the night, shooting Stiles' best friend in the arm.

"My Alpha can see you," the werewolf says, defiantly glaring at Chris as he approaches it, Taser levelled at the werewolf's head. "There's no Alpha like him. No Alpha that can see into your soul— Blue, and _piercing_ and _—_ "

Chris sighs, activates the Taser, and the rabid werewolf collapses to the ground.

"I hate it when they bring out one of their overly dramatic monologues," Chris says, and eyeballs the scene clinically. He looks down at Stiles with an annoyingly smug smile. "Nice work on the ash circle."

"Um," Stiles says, suddenly bashful. Now that the werewolf is unconscious on the floor, he can feel sweat sticking his shirt to his skin, and he's uncomfortable. Chris Argent's eyes – light blue, eerily blue, and piercing definitely works to describe them – make him shiver. Was the Omega describing souls, or eyes? If the latter, Chris couldn't be the one—

No. Because the rabid Omega would have shown some recognition.

Chris Argent isn't some wannabe Alpha.

But he's still creepy as all get out.

"Thanks for your help," Stiles says. "We'll, uh, we'll be going now—"

Chris puts a firm hand on Stiles' shoulder, stopping his hasty retreat. He looms closer, his eternally-ambiguous expression moving in. "There's an Omega that needs loading into my car. Where do you think you're going?"

"School," Stiles squeaks, and then he repeats it again, because damn, he thought he was over all the drama of his voice breaking _years_ ago. "School. Where we go. For education."

"Maybe I should let your dad know where you are, out in town on a Monday mid-afternoon," Chris says.

Stiles points at the werewolf. "This body? I can help you move this body. No problem-o."

Chris smile widens. "I thought you might say that."

#

Stiles helps heave the rabid unconscious werewolf into the back of Chris Argent's car, and then Chris helpfully "suggests" that Stiles clears away the mountain ash before the almost-victim pulls the cops or the FBI onto the scene, while Chris goes to interrogate the Omega. Stiles has seen a little of the Argent method of interrogation, and it's not the kind of thing he wants to see again, so he takes Chris's suggestion onboard quickly.

Well, as quickly as he can. The mountain ash is easy to get down onto the ground, but scuffing it with his sneakers so that there's not a mysterious ring of powder at the scene (and yeah, Stiles knows from his dad that powder at any crime scene is always the first thing to be snagged to be analysed. Which is ridiculous in this case, because even if there's a drug which looks like mountain ash, who's going to be stupid enough to leave a giant ring of it on the ground? Wait. Criminals would probably be stupid enough) isn't so quick.

Worse, he gets distracted while doing it, and is maybe thinking about the other shapes he could possibly throw the mountain ash into when he bends down to scoop a big heap of it up – and when he puts his hand down at the ground to get it, the ash flits away from his hand—

—and reforms into the circle again.

Stiles makes a sound which comes half out of his nose; it's strangled and high-pitched, and Lydia frowns down at him in consternation, her expression clearly telling him she's about three thousand per cent done with this whole day.

"I'm gonna get a lift from Aiden," Lydia says, and turns away from him, already dialling Aiden's number. Stiles scowls at her back, and at the mountain ash, and tries slamming his palm against the ground while she's not looking, but the ash stays stubbornly in a circle.

He kicks frenetically while Lydia stays out of the way, keeping an ear out for potential traffic, and by the time he manages to clear it to the sides of the alley, it's too late to go back to school; they escape to the more populated part of town, and Stiles goes for the bus while Lydia waits for her lift from Aiden. He offers to wait with her, but she is apparently _completely_ done with Stiles' company for the day.

He can't really blame her. Especially when Erica pops up. She doesn't say anything, just watches Stiles with her wide eyes, but Stiles is jumpy around her, and he's not surprised when Lydia makes her rush of an excuse to get away from him.

It's a little after four when Stiles gets back home, meaning he has two hours to kill before he needs to be at the animal clinic. His dad isn't in the driveway. Stiles goes straight for his room, not even bothering to stop for a snack, and sinks down onto his bed, hoping for a quick nap, but that's mostly ruined because his head's pounding too loudly.

Also, Boyd's standing in the corner of his room, staring at him.

Boyd's not saying anything. Real life Boyd rarely did. Out of all the ghosts, he's got the creepy haunting thing down pat; his eyes are lidded, his mouth open in a near snarl, and he rarely blinks. Stiles ends up grabbing his laptop and running downstairs, wondering if Boyd will follow him.

He doesn't, but only because Erica's sitting downstairs on one of the kitchen tables. Stiles lets out an annoyed sound, which just makes her smile.

"Tough break, kiddo," Erica says. "You're stuck with us."

"Until I figure out how to exorcise you," Stiles snaps, and rubs his forehead weakly, opening his laptop and automatically powering it on.

"You can't," Erica says. "You know we're not really ghosts."

Stiles shoots her a look. Erica grins and tosses her hair, preening a little.

"Don't even look at me like that," Erica says. "You know I'm just the dark power of the Nemeton, trying to eat your soul."

Stiles glares at her for a moment, because he doesn't know what else to do. Clearly he can't run away from something that's magically bound to him. He thinks back to Deaton's original theory, of a witch being burned near the Nemeton, or on the Nemeton, and being trapped, and wanting more than anything to get out.

"Are you someone?" Stiles asks, staring at her, trying not to be scared but his heart's pounding as if his brain hasn't quite passed on the message. "Were you a sacrificed witch? Did someone kill you on the Nemeton, and you're just trying to get out? Is Deaton's theory actually right?"

Erica blinks, and helpfully disappears.

Stiles lets out a groan.

Ugh. These ghosts have his _head_ in a knot, let alone his heart. None of the ghosts know anything he doesn't already know; it would be very easy for something to worm its way into his head, and pull _out_ these people.

He shifts restlessly, and then opens his email and closes it down in the same second, because he wants answers, and he doesn't know where to really get them from.

Well, that's kind of a lie, because he knows who he _might_ get answers from, but the guilt's been clawing at him just as badly as his almost-constant headache. Jennifer Blake—Julia Baccari – she _used_ Derek, and Stiles was apparently the template to that, and Stiles has the folder with the photos open before he can help himself, idly scanning through the images, flicking through them like they're some sort of impossibly bad, jarring flickbook.

Derek glaring at him in the Jeep. Stiles' arms around him keeping him up in the water. There's even one in the elevator in the Memorial Hospital, when Stiles had been about to punch Derek awake, and Derek had gripped onto his fist, eyes wide and Stiles hadn't noticed how _vulnerable_ Derek looked at that moment.

Like Julia's betrayal had hit him in the gut in that moment. That moment of weak physicality, reminding him how weak he was emotionally. And right _at_ that moment of vulnerability, Derek's not flinching away from Stiles' hands.

Stiles feels hot and fidgety for reasons he doesn't have a quick explanation for, reasons he doesn't want to look at, and his mouth is dry; he loads up his emails again and shoots a brief email off to Derek. Stiles checks the chat tab, but Derek isn't online; he's almost relieved, because that means Derek can't suggest the webcam again, and he won't see how jittery Stiles is. There's a weird energy buzzing under his skin, living just beneath the surface, and Stiles is wired with it.

 _What do you know about incubi? We might have one,_ Stiles writes, and sends. He goes for the kitchen then, downs two glasses of cold water, and forces himself to eat a slice of toast with peanut butter; it sits in the bottom of his stomach uneasily, and Stiles sits down, feeling a little queasy, just in time to see a white box pop-up in the bottom right-hand corner of his screen.

One new message from Hale, Derek.

 _There was one in Beacon Hills a while back, apparently they're really rare,_ the email reads. _I was only twelve, but I remember enough. They used to be shapeshifters, but they've lost the ability. They're usually covered in scales and teeth – think kanima turned up to eleven?_

_They're attracted to recent sexual activity, but they don't mate with their victims like the myths say. From what I remember… cold iron or steel is best to harm them, they have some sort of severe skin allergy to iron. Salt's your best bet? Mom made us take salt baths once a week for the whole summer (don't rinse it off later!), which I think was a form of protection, and I think salt was involved in the ritual to kill them, but I don't really remember much. Hope that helps. – DEREK._

Stiles sits back in his seat and stares at the wordy email, and his heart skips a little at _Mom_ , because that's kind of _huge_. Cora's really been good for him. He knows Cora said that losing a pack member was like losing a limb… but Stiles knows from experience that daydreaming about the dead returning to life is a fundamental fantasy when you've lost someone important to you. And while they've _both_ got that fantasy for real, Stiles would have preferred Derek's version of it to the ghosts.

But if he could have chosen, out of the two of them, Derek's the one that Stiles would _want_ the best version of it for. Stiles just lost one person; he can't even _imagine_ how that feels on the magnitude of the Hale fire. He imagines losing his mom, over and over, and _over,_ and his chest hurts.

Google is Stiles' friend, and he loads up some of the usual sites, the ones that have had an ounce of truth to them in the past. There's a monster wiki that's sometimes spot on, probably got a hunter or two amongst the regular editors, and Stiles checks out the incubi and succubi tab. A fine pen illustration depicts them as the cliché – human-shaped and attractive. No scales on the website. There's a line about steel hurting them, though, so Derek's memory is probably close to the mark, and further down, Stiles finds a reference to the salt as part of an exorcism ritual. According to the wiki, you can exorcise the demon out of the body.

"Can you take the demon out of anything?" Erica asks, back again and this time close to his ear, and despite himself, Stiles startles. When he turns, she's looking impassively at the screen. "I don't think you can. It's like having a dark heart." She looks at Stiles, somber and heavy. "You carry it around with you, always."

Ugh, it's way too depressing. Stiles scowls, and searches for how to take a salt bath instead, because he still has an hour left until he has to leave, so he might as well be prepared; he texts everyone the instructions, and goes to find the Epsom salts.

#

Stiles emerges from his salt bath spluttering, lurches for his phone, and texts Allison and Lydia an additional warning that the Internet didn't give him:

Salt baths plus scratches _sting_ like nobody's business.

And what the _hell_ does the supernatural world have with forcing him into _weird-ass_ bathing situations?

Ugh. _Drowning_ in the bath didn't hurt this much. Stiles scowls, and stomps around his room cursing under his breath, and stomps his way to the bus stop, and doesn't stop scowling most of the way, really, which gets him a sharp look from some of the women on the bus that have known Stiles since he was a baby. The shame tempers his scowl a little, but he's still mostly angry, and he can't fully explain why.

It's getting to be a recurring theme recently, and Stiles doesn't like it.

At least Deaton looks at him approvingly when he comes through the door.

"Ah, you took a salt bath," Deaton says, sniffing the air. Stiles squints, and sniffs himself; there is a faint tang of the salt on his body, but Deaton's a good six meters away. He feels a little of his bad humor sink away with the realization that being a vet with a great sense of smell is probably more of a curse than a blessing.

Scott wanders in, snapping off some medical gloves and shrugging into his jacket before he notices Stiles. "Hey," Scott says, nodding suavely, and then he wrinkles his nose. "What happened to you?"

"Do you _ever_ check your messages?" Stiles asks, and his bad mood isn't entirely gone; he settles his hands akimbo, and glares at Scott with as much anger mustered up as he can manage. "Seriously. Incubus. Running around. You need to get your pack into salt baths, asap."

Scott twitches at that, but does pull out his phone and reads the message and nods. "Allison's already texted me about that, whining about it stinging." He looks at Stiles in shock. "It hurts?"

"It's necessary," Deaton says. "If there's an incubus about."

" _If_?" Stiles questions, because he always likes to think he picks up on the important parts.

"They're still not our main worry," Deaton says. "Another Alpha-marked body was found this afternoon downtown."

Stiles thinks back to the rabid Omega werewolf, and to Chris Argent being so close. "Peter's out of jail now," Stiles offers. "You know he's our best bet."

"Apart from the part where he was _in_ your dad's cells for at least six of the murders," Scott says.

" _Six_?" Stiles blinks, and Scott looks guilty. " _Scott_."

"You've had a lot to worry about, with the lodestones and everything," Scott says, "we just thought—"

"Oh, my god," Stiles says, sinking to a chair. "Of _course_ you just thought I didn't have to know. Not that I might be wasting time trying to help come up with a plan—"

"We kinda have one," Scott says, continuing to pull on his jacket. "The patrols we had before were good, but Allison had an idea of taking things out on the perimeter of a location – boxing things in towards where we are—Y'know the October Travelling Fair you wanted to go to, I mean, we _need_ to go to it. The rabid Omegas that are getting past the hunting net, all the people who are going to be there; that's like an all-you-can-eat buffet—"

Oh. Yeah. He should have thought about that. Stiles frowns, mostly at himself, but he's been so distracted with the ghosts, and the Nemeton, and the lodestones, and the headaches—

And the constant feeling sorry for himself.

Stiles rubs his chest almost automatically. The darkness in his heart could come in many forms, Deaton's always said that, and his apparently is manifesting in being completely useless.

"We've got it covered," Scott says. "We've got a plan for the patrol for tomorrow and Halloween, and you're up for being on my team, right?"

"He means, _you_ need protection from the Big Bad Alpha," Victoria Argent croons, right in his ear, and Stiles has to bite his tongue to stop from flinching, because how is her voice _inside_ the animal clinic. "Because you're so useless on your own that you can't even remember a simple fact."

"Dude, of course," Stiles says.

"Cool," Scott says, crossing the floor, "Lydia told me you got the mountain ash down to an art. Looking forward to seeing that in action." Scott pats him on the shoulder, and then heads straight for the door. "Gotta go, doc. The twins want to make sure we map out a route for the next two days, one that forces anything harmful onto our patrol path."

Deaton's nodding, like he's known about this plan all along. Which he probably has. Stiles thought he'd fallen from his previous role quite badly, going from the one making the plans to the one following Scott's plans.

And now he's not even allowed to really know Scott's plans at all.

Which isn't exactly a new thing, now Stiles thinks about it.

Scott's been cutting him out all year. First the plan with Gerard's pills. Then _going_ with Deucalion, even though he never said a single thing to Stiles about that being a possibility _ever_. And then the stuff at the Motel, Scott's suicidal speech, which came out of damn _nowhere,_ and thoughts like that _don't_ come from nowhere.

When the supernatural uses your darkness to try and compel you, it feeds on your weak spots. It feeds on weak spots that are already there. And Stiles didn't tell Scott about how he spent his summer, sure, but maybe that was just a pure reaction to Scott pulling away from him, an inch at a time.

Scott's always with Isaac now, of course. And before that, Scott was so hung up with Allison that he nearly let Stiles and Derek drown in the pool; it was a fluke that Scott rescued them that time.

 _We_ have a plan. _We_ just thought.

But Stiles wasn't there to be part of that _we_.

"You're starting to see," Victoria says, and she's sitting on the counter next to Stiles, much more transparent than usual, but there. The wards would weaken in time, Deaton said, and Stiles had just been naïve to think they would hold longer. That he would have at least _one_ safe space from the ghosts. "That you're not pack. You're not in Scott's pack. He doesn't _think_ of you as one of _them_. Allison's a hunter. Lydia's a banshee. And what are _you_?"

"Did you say something?" Deaton asks, frowning in Stiles' direction.

Stiles flinches. "Nothing," he says.

And as much as he's telling Deaton that, there's a little voice in the back of Stiles' skull that says maybe…

Maybe he's answering Victoria's question too.

His session with Deaton is mostly uneventful. Deaton piles some more volumes on him to read, and Stiles starts to cross-reference them, trying to find something useful about succubus. He tries to tell himself he's not hoping to find one valid piece of information to swoop in and show the pack that he's a _necessary_ part of operations, but that doesn't last long as motivation; Deaton's already there as a fully trained emissary, and he's practically Scott's surrogate father.

Stiles has to bite down on his fingers to stop from laughing. Because after all of this…

He's a back-up emissary.

He's a _benchwarmer_.

Oh, man. That's obviously Stiles' lot in life.

He opens his phone to text the revelation to someone: _Just my luck – my life gets supernaturally interesting, Beacon Hills stops being so dull, and I… am still just a benchwarmer?_ But then he realizes Scott would probably just be hurt by it, or take it with a pinch of oversensitivity, like worrying that Stiles is envious and Scott's been rubbing his face in it.

He hovers between sending it and pressing delete, and in a flurry of fingers, he sends it to HALES, just so that he can pretend he's not oddly woefully alone.

Oh, god. Stiles' life _is_ sad. When he's forced to go to _Derek Hale_ for comfort over his pathetic life realization?

Something's wrong in his life. _Very wrong._

Deaton leaves him alone for most of the session, probably either enigmatically sensing Stiles' bad mood with his magic zen powers, or, more likely, correctly interpreting Stiles' residual scowl and chair-leg kicking that punctuates his reading. He also lets Stiles go early, so Stiles can get a decent bus home, and not risk being out in the dark.

But of course, this is Stiles' woeful, unlucky life, so of _course_ Kyle McCall is outside the Animal Clinic. He's chatting to one of his colleagues, looking out across the road, but Kyle looks across at Stiles as he comes out of the main door.

Stiles sighs, and doesn't bother to temper the sound.

"Mr. Sti _lin_ ski," Kyle calls, and Stiles rolls his eyes to face him – only to realize someone else is there, too.

Isaac. Looking entirely uncomfortable, his arms folded across his chest, his shoulders hunched.

Stiles hurries over to him automatically.

"I was just telling Mr. McCall how I was coming by to see you," Isaac says, through gritted teeth.

"So he was," Stiles says, smiling obnoxiously at Kyle. "We have plans. Epic plans. Law breaking. Mass murder. Massive explosions."

"Huh?" Isaac breathes, looking startled.

"The movies," Stiles says. "We're going to the movies."

Yeah, Kyle McCall isn't the _only_ one who can be an ass.

"So unless you're keeping Isaac for some nefarious reason," Stiles says, "I mean, far be it from me to start asking the FBI questions about why their junior agents are sniffing around teenage boys…"

"Just having a friendly chat," Kyle grits out. Stiles' feels his smile widening. There's nothing that beats one of his bad moods than getting to wind up Kyle McCall, no sirree.

"Great," Stiles says, "now I'm done, let's go, Isaac, my man."

"I'm not your _man,_ " Isaac says, but he lets Stiles tug him away by his coat sleeve.

"And maybe later we can have a chat, Mr. Stilinski," Kyle says to his retreating back. "About why the local teenagers are so obsessed with the Animal Clinic."

Stiles turns back, opening his mouth to shout back an insult, but Isaac suddenly wincing and covering his ears distracts him.

Stiles looks back at Kyle McCall, struck by something horrible, a creeping fear sliding down his spine, but Isaac derails that thought instantly with one word.

One name.

"Lydia," Isaac breathes, and that's _way_ more of a distraction than Stiles' sudden, creeping fear.

" _Where,_ " Stiles demands, so flatly it's an order more than a question. Isaac starts to run in response, and Stiles sends a mental thank you to Coach Finstock for making them all do cross-country – Isaac stays running at a human speed because of the random people around at this time of the evening, and it means Stiles can keep up. A mental thank you, Stiles thinks darkly, is the only kind of thank you the Coach should ever get. The verbal ones fluster him so much that he can't direct the team properly, and it's even more bedlam and chaos than usual.

Of course, Stiles and Isaac don't _need_ to run – they get a short way into the Preserve, and that's the only action Stiles really gets to be part of. Because they enter the clearing just as Allison shoots the creature through the heart, and it turns and _runs_. Stiles gets a quick glimpse of it – about three hundred pounds, male-looking figure, covered in ugly grey scales and tattered white material, like it tried to wear human clothes and they all got ripped off.

Derek was kinda underestimating it when he said kanima turned up to eleven.

"Shit," Scott says, "Aiden, Ethan—"

He just has to say their names, and the twins move off like a well-oiled machine, crashing after the creature; Chris Argent's there too, and he takes off at a loping, graceful run through the undergrowth with one of his lackeys.

Allison hangs back to put an arm around Lydia, who's shaking, and Isaac and Stiles cross the ground quickly to catch up to them.

"Aiden and I were—" Lydia gulps out, "and it was just—" She gestures.

"It's okay. You screamed, we came," Scott says. "The system works."

"Apart from the dead bodies," Allison says, rubbing her forehead. "It doesn't feel like such a win when there are two more bodies in the morgue."

"What—" Stiles starts.

Scott shoots him a twisted expression. "While you and Lydia were dealing with the Omega, Mom called. She didn't get a good look, but… definitely two new victims, both today, both drained of blood with eight marks in their neck."

"Awesome," Stiles says, pulling a face. "And then they tried for a third, huh?"

"Me," Lydia says, and her voice sounds almost _hollow_. Stiles suddenly _hates_ that he was so flippant with his question. Sometimes the adrenaline of all this supernatural business overrides the parts of him that remember just how beyond the pale everything actually is. "I thought incubi were supposed to be all seduce-y," Lydia says, and wow, she _has_ to be rattled if her impressive vocabulary has deserted her. "Not like, the repulsive slightly prettier brother of the hobag that my dad's dating."

Stiles winces at her in sympathy, because now she's sharing stuff about her personal life. _Out loud._ Voluntarily. The incubi must have been _terrifying_ up close.

Lydia flickers a glance in Stiles direction. "If it wasn't for the salt bath tip, I think it would have clawed me for sure."

Stiles smiles, but it's fleeting and weak; something which brings Lydia's notice, anyway. She shakes her head, and tilts her chin, swallowing hard and tensing her shoulders.

Stiles recognizes that stance. He remembers using it a lot when the doctors said his mom's prognosis was looking worse, when the cognitive decline was starting to be overshadowed by the physical decline.

Hell, he remembers using it when her mind started to slip, like when she would pack him a bar of soap in with his lunch bag. Like when she forgot who he was, and thought he was a lost child, and told him to sit with her while she called the nurse to find his parents.

That stance is defiance. That stance is pure _I'm not okay, but if I pretend I am, maybe I_ will _be okay._

And the worst way for that illusion to be shattered is for someone to point it out, and when that pretence shatters…

…that's when whatever you're pretending didn't happen crushes you to the ground.

"We have a problem," Stiles says,

Lydia's eyebrows knot in worry. Scott, Allison and Isaac all turn to look at him, and Stiles swallows, looking at them in the dim light, hating the surprise on their faces, that he might have news they don't already know. He wraps his arms around himself, cold now in the gloom of the trees, and he winces. "I figured that Lydia must have screamed when Isaac covered his ears," Stiles says, and he looks across at Scott, worried expression on full.

Scott looks back at Stiles, suddenly worried himself. "What?"

Stiles swallows awkwardly, unsure of how to phrase this. "When you—I presume Isaac was patrolling close by?"

"Yeah," Scott says, tentatively.

"Well, he was being hassled," Stiles says.

"Just by your dad and a couple of the FBI goons," Isaac hurries to placate Scott. "They just wanted to know where I've been for the last couple of hours. No big deal. They can't arrest me for taking a walk."

"Well," Stiles says, interrupting before he loses his nerves, before his anger about Scott keeping things from him swallows up the truth and makes his harder to say. "Isaac covered his ears when Lydia screamed…"

"Yeah, werewolf hearing," Isaac defends.

Stiles drops the bombshell, because there's no gentle way to say it. "I looked back at the FBI guys. And your dad… he covered his ears too."

Scott's expression goes flint-hard. "What?"

"I'm sorry, Scott," Stiles says. "But… I think your dad's a werewolf."

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_"Your strength is just an accident owed to the weakness of others."_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

"I'm going to kill him," Scott says, for the hundredth time. He stalks across the Animal Clinic tiles. "I'm going to—I'm going to _kill_ him."

Deaton looks up at Scott impassively. Stiles aggressively chews his fingernails, trying to blend into the background; Deaton had taken out his annoyance of having to stay late on him, originally, before he realized it was a legitimate emergency, but Stiles holds a grudge.

"It's the power in you," Deaton says. "Not the darkness from the false sacrifice. The Alpha power in you. It speaks to you on a feral level, to the animal part of your human side. Wolves are naturally territorial; you need to listen to your _human_ side."

"I'm listening," Scott says, and jabs a finger into space viciously, "and it's pissed off too."

Scott's anger burns brilliant for a moment, and then—he just sags against the nearest counter, shaking his head slowly, all his angry energy gone. It's classic Scott. He burns brighter than a star when mad, but it doesn't last for long. "It's just—I'm so—" He clenches his fingers into a fighting curl, but his claws stay under control. "I feel like a stupid idiot, because I should have known." He shakes his head and looks up at Deaton, shaking his head.

"You couldn't have known," Allison says, shaking her head. "I lived my life in a house of hunters. When family wants to keep a secret from you, they work damn hard. And it's easy to beat yourself up afterwards, tell yourself you should have known."

"Hindsight is always 20/20," Deaton agrees.

"Yeah, but—" Scott starts, and Stiles quails inside, because Harold.

The things Harold used to do to Scott make complete, painful sense.

Yeah, Stiles knows the story, back to front. He knows precisely why Scott doesn't want to talk about the abuse he suffered as a child from Harold's behavior. Stiles knows that Kyle McCall stood back, and _let_ Harold terrorize Scott; that Harold barely ever touched Scott apart from a couple of instances, that Harold's weapon was mostly his _words_ and some harmful games _,_ but those words were more than enough—Scott should be a tiny, shredded heap of a person, by all rights, but he's stronger than that—

If Kyle's a werewolf, Harold will have been one too.

Oh, god. Poor Scott. Stiles had promised never to tell the story to another living soul, but for a moment, he wishes he could tell Derek exactly _why_ Scott never reacted well to his Alpha posturing.

_I'm the Alpha of this family boy. I'm the Alpha dog and I'm going to tear out your throat, weakling. You know what we do to young cubs, boy. We leave them out in the snow to die._

As far as Stiles is aware, that was Harold McCall's favorite game. Leave Scott stranded in the middle of nowhere, so he would have to run miles to get home, in unfamiliar territory. Scott nearly lost his foot one winter to frostbite and Stiles just wanted to rip Kyle's face off, because Kyle was his _dad_ , and Kyle should have _protected_ Scott—

But if Harold _was_ the McCall Alpha… If Kyle's a Beta, or an Omega…

And Harold's dead now, hence him being able to haunt Scott. Which gives Stiles a thought. "Does this mean Scott's not a True Alpha?" Stiles says, because the curiosity burns. "Could he—I mean, he could genuinely be a _real_ Alpha, right? It can be passed genetically."

"It can," Deaton says, "theoretically. But you forget, Mr. Stilinski, that had Scott been a werewolf from a young age, his passage into my Animal Clinic would have been blocked."

"I've always been able to get through the mountain ash," Scott says. "The only time I had to be allowed through was when I was bitten, before I—" He gestures at himself. Well, he looks a little less defeated right now. It's got to be reassuring to him that he didn't inherit a genetic trait from someone he hated. "Man, this just—" He looks sick for a moment. "Do you think mom knows that she married a werewolf? Or is he a bitten one? Is he—" Scott trails off.

"Is he the one leaving the mark on the dead bodies?" Allison finishes off. Scott looks at her sharply, like she's stabbed him. "I'm sorry, Scott. Someone had to say it."

"It's more than likely that Kyle McCall _is_ an Alpha," Deaton muses. "Because you haven't scented him, and it's only Alphas that can hide their scent."

"Awesome," Scott says, weakly. "So I'll probably have to have some epic showdown with my own father for possession of the Beacon Hills territory?"

"I doubt he's here for the land," Deaton says, soothingly. "He may not even know he's an Alpha."

"How's _that_ even possible?" Stiles asks, the curiosity burning again. "Scott had to train for _weeks_ with you to even manage to hide his scent slightly—"

"Denial's often a cause of power suppression in werewolves, which can naturally force the werewolf part to go into retreat," Deaton says, shrugging. "However the Alpha dies, the next in line can still assume the power without having to kill the Alpha."

"So like Laura Hale became the Alpha when her family died," Allison says.

"Yeah, and then Peter slit her throat for it," Lydia mutters peevishly.

"So when Harold died in that car crash," Scott says, "the power passed to my dad, but because… he didn't really want it… Didn't want the reminder…"

"Well, it's a theory," Deaton says. "The other theory is he is an Alpha, and he has an ulterior motive for being here."

"I bet it's door number two," Stiles says. "But hypothetically, if it's door number one, how do we stop him from knowing he's an Alpha?"

"And is there a way from stopping him from being an Alpha – or using that power against us – if he _is_ one?" Isaac says. "Apart from slashing his throat." He shuffles, uneasy at the attention directed his way. "Let's just say I have a vested interest in _not_ letting asshole fathers have too much power."

Scott leans over and awkwardly pats Isaac on the back of his hand. Isaac nods back gratefully.

"Sometimes just the individual knowing they have power hidden is enough of a trigger," Deaton admits.

"So no going in blazing with the truth," Scott sighs. "Awesome." He looks across at Stiles. "I was kinda hoping to provoke him and have a valid reason for punching him in the face."

"Dude," Stiles says, approvingly. "Right on."

"Alternatively… The power of an Alpha… It's like a spark," Deaton says. "It's that spark of power that makes you an Alpha. The power that heightens your senses, your strength. The power that transforms your body. As an Alpha, you have that bit of extra, that spark intensifies the color of your eyes from a bright yellow into a searing red. That spark doesn't go away, until it is taken, or it is passed on to the next-in-line. Some of the _intensity_ of the spark can hide for a while, though."

"So if it is hidden…" Scott says, frowning through the thought.

"He's like gunpowder," Stiles says. "It's just powder until another spark ignites it."

Deaton smiles faintly at the ghost of his own words.

"Do I still count as a spark?" Stiles asks, quietly, looking at Deaton nervously. Deaton nods. "Damn, that counts me out from punching him in the face. I need you to know how disappointed this makes me that I can only help take him out from a distance." He grins, a little darkly. "I liked the Molotov cocktails from the _last_ Alpha I helped torch."

"Good times," Lydia says, appreciatively.

"Scott, you'd be a spark too," Deaton says. "One Alpha to another."

"Great," Scott says, scuffing the ground with his toes. He frowns. "How about the twins?"

Deaton sighs. "I'm not an exhaustive font of knowledge," he says. "I'm fairly certain their encounter with the Darach broke _that_ route to their spark." He throws something at Scott; Scott's distracted but still catches the keys. "Lock up when you're done."

Stiles briefly mourns the lack of old Scott; Deaton's keys would have smacked him in the face. Man, there's definitely a sad lack of slapstick comedy in his life now that Scott's all werewolf agility; a void that Stiles can't fulfill single-handedly, even though his dad will tell anyone that will listen that Stiles will _try_.

"It's like we've got our own _base,_ " Scott says enthusiastically, once Deaton's gone.

"No," Stiles says.

"Well, I know we have to share it—" Scott starts.

"I mean, no, you can't call it the Wolf Cave," Stiles says, flatly.

" _Stiles_ —" Scott pouts. Stiles glares and wags his finger, and Scott sags, but he gives Stiles his best puppy dog expression, and that's like Stiles' kryptonite. "Ugh, fine. But only because Deaton would hate it."

Stiles beams. If his smile is a little wider on seeing the other three's confusion at missing half of their unspoken conversation, he tucks the reasoning down inside himself. Scott and he might have started keeping secrets from each other, but it doesn't mean they can't still be as close as ever.

"So what are we going to do about your dad?" Allison asks, cutting straight to the point.

"I think it's a case of _better the devil you know,_ " Stiles says. "He'll be easier to follow if he doesn't think we're suspecting him. Which means radio silence any time we think he's in the vicinity; that werewolf super hearing is a bitch."

"If we confront him and he runs, he'd be much harder to follow," Lydia agrees. "This way, we have a clue to what he's doing."

"So do we think he's the one—" Isaac starts, and gestures at his own forehead.

Stiles can't quite look Scott in the eye, but he nods.

"And in the meantime, while we watch and follow and wait," Allison says, "more people are dying."

There's silence as that thought stretches between them. It's a heavy weight, and more of a pressure than teenagers are supposed to suffer under. Stiles wonders what an ordinary kid would be worried about right now. Probably upcoming exams. Career choices. Whether or not they were going to make first line on the lacrosse team…

"Well, that's why you have me," Lydia says. "Your very own stylish walking victim and dead-body detector." She smirks. "Do you think I can fit that on my resume?"

Still stuck on what an ordinary teen might be fretting about, Stiles tilts his head. "Am I the only one in the room too lazy to have a resume already?"

Scott and Isaac shrug at him; both of them work after school, so it's not _weird_ for them to have them. Of _course_ Lydia's prepared. Allison looks sheepish. "Mom used to make me work summers," she says. "Of course, now her rant about customers being predators makes more sense now I know she was a hunter."

Stiles wrinkles his nose.

"Don't worry, buddy, I'll email you mine so you can copy it," Scott says, and then he shakes his head. "Man, our lives. We go from stalking a potential FBI werewolf to talking about _resumes_."

"Could be worse," Isaac says. "We could be talking about homework."

"You mean the algebra coursework you still haven't started yet?" Allison asks, looping her arm through his. Isaac scowls at the floor. "It's due next week."

"I know," Isaac says, "I—" The front desk bell sounds, and Isaac's look of relief is palpable. "Saved by the bell," he breathes.

"Yeah," Stiles points out, "by someone who needs a vet at nine o' clock at night, ergo an emergency, who can probably see us moving around, but hasn't come past the mountain ash desk to get us?"

"I hadn't thought of that," Isaac says, his face falling a little.

"It's Ethan and Aiden," Scott says, hurrying for the door to let them through; since becoming True Alpha, he's not had much trouble lifting up the mountain ash divider. When Scott comes back through, he's already briefing them on the situation with his father. "So the plan's just to hang back, watch him, see what move he makes."

"We can take it in turns during the day," Ethan says.

"It's not like we _have_ to be at school," Aiden agrees. "And we can cover for each other anyway."

"I always _did_ want to have an identical twin," Allison muses.

"I'm glad for the world that you _don't,_ " Stiles says, "can you imagine two Allison Argents? I'm kinda terrified at the prospect."

"I don't mind it," Isaac says, a little dreamily. Scott swallows and looks away quickly, and Stiles shoots his bro a commiserative look. Scott sends him a weak version of a smile; he knows Stiles understands, considering their front row seats to Lydia and Jackson's epic romance.

"There's something else," Ethan says. "We followed up on the recent body – we followed your dad for a little while, sorry."

"No apologies necessary," Stiles says, "unless you saw him pass a donut shop and _didn't_ smack them out of his hands."

"Uh," Ethan says, shooting Aiden a look.

"Baked goods aside," Aiden says, "we overheard him mentioning that the last two bodies had the same puncture marks as the body found outside the mall."

"And that's when we noticed that we couldn't scent any werewolves that weren't us," Ethan says. "So we extended the patrol route."

The twins start talking about routes that Stiles can't quite follow, and the sharp reminder that he's been left out of some of the planning isn't nice; he probably should push in, get more involved by _being_ more involved, but his headache's distracting. The dilemma tugs at him, whether to force them to start including him by forcibly inserting himself into the plans, but then he gets sad because he shouldn't _have_ to elbow himself into his friends' plans, they should _want_ him there; it's a headache on _top_ of his headache, and thankfully his phone chimes to distract him. The others don't even notice; they're too busy talking about werewolves and preserve routes, which is probably a good thing, because he's kind of smiling like a kid at Christmas.

_YOU COULD NEVER -just- be anything._

Thx, Stiles texts back.

 _Any news regarding the incubus_? HALES texts back.

Now… that could be Cora. But Stiles knows Derek at least a _little_ by now. Derek won't have mentioned the incubus to Cora; won't risk her thinking she has to run back and rescue them, and risk herself. He takes a risk that Cora hasn't swiped the phone.

It creeps me out that you've figured out how to take the capslock off, Stiles types back, keeping an eye on the others in case they've remembered he's there.

"They won't remember that you're here," Kate Argent says, and Stiles startles and nearly drops his phone.

 _I CAN TURN IT ON IF IT'S LESS CREEPY_ , Derek offers.

 _I bet you CAN turn it on,_ Stiles texts back, sort of on auto-pilot. Then he hits send, and realizes exactly what he just sent. Whoops. He's just so used to just texting Scott, and their easy faux-flirting built on years of epic bromancing, that he hadn't thought of the implications.

 _NEWS, STILES_ , Derek replies. Well, it could be worse. Although… _how_ did Derek make a two word text sound so threatening? Stiles needs to learn this skill. Stat.

 _News: two more bodies found,_ Stiles texts back. _Same puncture marks on both_. _It went after Lydia, but the salt bath repelled it when it touched her skin. TY for the tip._

This time, there's no response.

"Even he isn't interested in you," Heather says. "Are you surprised?"

Stiles goes cold, and keeps his gaze averted from the flash of golden hair in the corner of his vision.

"He should be interested in you." Heather appears in front of him, and Stiles sighs, pocketing his phone and trying to make his vision focus on nothing, so he doesn't have to see her. "Seeing as you've got that whole shared past event going on."

Stiles turns his head when Heather moves abruptly to his right.

"Love a woman, trust her, and _bam_ , that's most of your family gone," Heather says. "Isn't that how the story goes?"

"I have to go," Stiles blurts out loud. "Uh. Dad. I have to—" He gestures vaguely at the clock.

"Sure," Scott says. "I'll call you later."

"Yeah," Stiles mutters, "yeah."

He heads to the exit, Heather laughing at him in the background, and he full-body flinches when someone touches him on the elbow, but it's just Lydia.

"You need a lift?" Lydia asks, her voice soft as she dangles her keys. "I can get Allison to drop me off at your house to pick my car back up."

Her kindness is nearly too much. Stiles is brittle with the guilt crawling around his bones.

"You know you don't deserve nice things," his mom's voice says, close to his ear, and Stiles has to force the smile.

"There's a bus due in three minutes," Stiles says, "and I have more mountain ash." He shows Lydia the pouch. "I'll be fine."

Lydia nods, and lets him go, offering him a faint smile which helps him get to the bus without falling apart.

The ghost of his mom is right, though.

He doesn't deserve nice things.

#

When Stiles gets home, and sees the cruiser in the driveway, he doesn't want to talk to his dad. Well, he means to do the bare social minimum. But there's been a block between them for so long, and it's just been getting _worse_ , and Stiles just wants to go and hide.

What he wants and what _happens_ have always tended to be two different things, though. He doesn't know _why_ it happens, or why _now_ , but his mom always used to say that sometimes it just took the smallest drop of water to overflow a glass that had been flooded to the brim.

And maybe it's thinking about his mom that finally does it. That finally makes Stiles' brain realize he's been carrying just one too many things on his shoulders for so long. _Too_ long.

Stiles open his mouth to say something boring, he does. But what comes out instead is just a croak, just one word.

"Dad—"

And of course Stiles' intention is to be stoic around his dad, because that's how the Stilinskis have rolled since Mom died, and he's been playing this role for so long that it's a total surprise to Stiles himself when he sees his dad and just—

Breaks.

That's it. That's the only word Stiles can use for it. Something of it must show on Stiles' face before it fully hits, something tangible enough for his dad to get to his feet just in time to catch his son, and Stiles just breaks, and breaks, and breaks, right there in the doorway, right in the only damn space in the world he has even a hope's chance in hell at feeling safe in: in his dad's arms.

His dad has a hand in his hair, an arm around his back, before Stiles can even register what's going on – Stiles' throat is burning, and it takes him a moment to realize why; he's burbling out random syllables, words that barely make it into half a sentence before dissolving to the floor, and his dad just makes reassuring sounds, shushing sounds, because this moment isn't for clarity. This is the most human moment Stiles has had in _years_ , and he's breaking down, of course he is.

"It's okay, Stiles, it's okay," his dad murmurs, over and over.

"How—" Stiles manages, and the word feels like it's blistering his mouth. "How can—"

"It's okay to let go occasionally, son," Dad says, gripping Stiles' shoulder tight. Like an anchor to the ground, leaving Stiles safe to fly into pieces, knowing someone's got him. "I was expecting it earlier, to be honest. Because you're going through—I can't even wrap my head around it—and you just keep going—"

"Winston Churchill," Stiles says.

Stiles' brains aren't entirely from his mother; his dad huffs a warm breath. "Yeah, hell just about covers it," his dad admits, "and I should—I should have been there to protect you more, I know—"

"No," Stiles says, pulling back, and his dad's crying too, which is, oh, that's weird, but it's also less embarrassing, and his dad doesn't let him pull away completely; his dad grabs his neck and keeps him still, "you've always looked after me, always—"

"It just—I hate that there are things I can't protect you from," Dad says, his face stretching into a taut, regretful expression. "I know it's something every parent has to learn, but—it's a hell of a painful lesson when it comes."

"I'm sorry—"

"You have _nothing_ to feel sorry about," Dad says, almost barking it out. "Nothing, Stiles. I mean it."

"You do," Erica says, and over Dad's shoulder, her face is sad. "You know what you did."

"I do," Stiles says, wiping at his face, "I do."

Dad holds back a little, and his eyes scan Stiles' face desperately. "Okay," he says, evenly. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. We can deal with it. Anything you need."

Stiles shakes his head, and in that moment, Erica steps away, and Kate steps in. "It's a lot of guilt to keep buried," she says, her head tilted. Her throat is slit, and her face is blemished by mud, like she's crawled out of her grave just for Stiles.

"Mom," Stiles says. Just that. Just the name.

But Dad knows exactly what he means. The thing they never talk about.

For a reason.

Stiles regrets saying it, because his dad tenses up, and Stiles sags, because there's a _reason_ they don't talk about this, there's a very good reason they never even mention her, so they don't have to think about _this_.

"It's fine," Stiles says. "I'll just go to bed—"

Stiles moves to fall backwards… and Dad's grip just increases.

"No," Dad says, " _no_. This is something we've skipped around more often than we should. It's time for me to be the grown up for once." He looks directly into Stiles' eyes. "Your mother's illness wasn't your fault, Stiles. It was hereditary. You know what that means."

"That I didn't make her ill," Stiles says, in a small voice. "But I—"

"But _nothing_ ," Dad says, and lets go of Stiles just to run his hands over his own face. Then he grabs Stiles by the elbow, and ushers him gently down onto the couch, sitting him down so that they're facing each other, knees touching. Dad leans over so his hand is firm on Stiles' shoulder, and Stiles leans into the touch, needing the anchor more than anything, realizing in this moment just how the werewolves maintain control. By latching onto something stronger than them. By latching onto the one thing that will always hold them onto the ground while the world is tipping upside down.

"You didn't kill your mother, Stiles," Dad says, and there's a tremble in his voice, a lurch which makes Stiles' stomach clench. "You didn't. I know you always thought your hyperactivity had something to do with it, and that's my fault, I didn't handle—I don't handle things as well as I could, I know that—"

"You do great," Stiles says.

"Your mom's condition was always going to—It was always critical," Dad says, looking straight at Stiles. Stiles' vision goes very blurry. " _Nothing_ you could have done could have changed the eventual outcome."

"But I—" Stiles squeezes his hands together, and his shoulders shake, and he can't look his dad in the eye when he says, "You _know_ what I did. I should have known. I should have—"

His dad's hands are on his back again, wide and heavy and reassuring, stroking him in the way he always used to, when Stiles was a nine year old splintering apart on the bathroom floor. "I know," Dad says, like he's forcing it past a roadblock in his throat. "I know. And I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so fucking sorry she did that to you. I'm so sorry I've waited so long to say the damn words—"

"Did that to—" Stiles' head flies up. "What do you—"

"Did that _to_ ," Dad affirms, gripping both of Stiles' shoulders tight. "It wasn't fair. No one should have been asked to do anything like that, and she tricked you, Stiles. You were a nine year old boy who loved her unconditionally, and you just thought you were doing Mom a favor. That's it. There's no fault there. Not on you."

"But I should have—" Stiles starts, shaking his head. "The ghosts agree I killed her, they—"

"The day you prioritize what a ghost says over what your old man has spent eight years being too stupid to say is the day you get eternally grounded, young man," Dad says. "And considering I've so far been good enough to give you a pass on having a man eight years your senior half-naked in your room—"

"It was for the greater good!" Stiles protests. Some of the tightness in his chest has lightened, and it's enough of a reprieve for him to realize just how grossly snotty he is; Dad, because he's an angel on top of everything else, wisely hands him a handful of Kleenex. "Danny wouldn't have hacked into the—"

Dad's expression quirks, and Stiles grimaces.

"Uh," Stiles says, "there's no way I manipulated Derek into stripping to persuade Danny to risk his juvenile computer crime file being opened again?"

He winces.

Dad sighs. "You're lucky I love you, son," he says. "Which I. Uh. Do. Even though I don't say it enough. And I'm proud of you."

"Dad—" Stiles says, weakly, and then looks at his dad warmly. "I love you too."

"Damn right you do," Dad says, his grin a little off-centre. "So. While we're having a heart-to-heart—"

"Ugh," Stiles says, with feeling, because one breakdown and moment of painful honesty does not an easy, openly-emotional relationship make, "do we have to?"

"Kinda do," his dad says, and leans over to the side-table, pulling out a handful of papers. Stiles glimpses through his tears, dries his eyes with one of the tissues, and he clamps down on a groan. "Derek Hale, huh?"

"It's not anything," Stiles says, gesturing with a snotty tissue at the printed-off picture. A weird twinge makes his jaw tense, and it feels a little like guilt. "It—" He shakes his head, and stares off into the space of the dining room. "It wasn't anything. I mean. I feel like—like—maybe it might have become something. One day. But it might not have. It- It's just—"

"Like there was potential, that you didn't notice was there," Dad says, a weird softness to his voice.

"Exactly," Stiles says. "Something I could have easily gone my whole life without seeing. Something which—maybe in time—" He sighs, heavily, knowing he's not making sense, but that's kind of how he operates now; eternally chasing fragments, trying to put them together to see what the picture is. "And now I've been forced to see it, and I'll never know if it was something I would have naturally seen, and I don't know—"

"Feelings are difficult," Dad says. "And we're genetically predisposed to being as dense as a cinderblock towards them, believe me." He smiles ruefully, shaking his head. "Your Mom would be able to tell you how long it took for me to extract my head from my ass, I swear, I thought I just had an arch-nemesis, not a potential—" He gestures vaguely, probably meaning soul-mate, and considering how that story ended—And wait, back up there a second.

"You thought Mom was your arch nemesis?" Stiles blurts out. His mom definitely told their getting-together story a lot differently for sure; she used to tell Stiles about how she'd known Dad was the one from the first time their eyes met over the math classroom.

Dad rubs a hand over the back of his neck sheepishly, and a fond smile quirks his mouth to one side. "We were competing for valedictorian," Dad says, leaning back into the couch. "In the classes we shared, we'd always be within a point of each other on the homework, and I used to get so mad. Even back then, she brought out the best in me. And the worst."

"Yeah," Stiles says, thinking of how Derek brings out his meaner impulses sometimes, "yeah, I know that one."

Dad pins him with an astute look. "She was the one who cornered me in senior year. Told me to stop being a stupid moron and pretending all the time like I was this airheaded jock, because she _knew_ I was the one riding her ass on the path to Valedictorian, and she wanted me to stop wasting time jerking around posing in the locker room, and spend the time I used pretending just to be one of the sporty kids to put my head down and try to beat her scores for once, because she was tired of putting in 100% against me when I was slacking."

"But you were getting so close scores to her," Stiles says.

"Without trying my best," Dad says, shrugging helplessly, "I know. But it just wasn't done back then, to be popular and smart—"

"Things haven't really changed," Stiles says. "Lydia. She does the same. Popular and the smartest damn kid in school."

"Are you still carrying a torch for her?" Dad asks.

"Lydia's amazing," Stiles says, instantly, and then he frowns, and he shrugs. "Yeah, I think I am." He can still picture them together if he squints, if he thinks about it hard enough, and a spark of something jolts in his chest, somewhere near where the darkness lies. "Yeah. But—"

"But now there's the knowledge that you can imagine Hale there instead, and it's making everything…"

"Complicated," Stiles says. "Definitely complicated." He thinks vaguely that maybe he should have protested his dad's words, but… his dad is right. He's had his fantasies about Lydia for years, idle daydreams that would never in a million years happen, but the more realistic fragments of them… He can imagine Derek's hand against his in a non-threatening way. He can imagine how Derek's smile would feel against the curve of his neck, the way his rare amused chuckles would slide like thunder through his skin. Stiles swallows hard, and he's mourning, mourning the loss of finding this out for himself. Of being forced to confront the idea head-on, to find it's been lurking under the surface for the longest time, blocked by a girl he's put so high on a pedestal it's a wonder dream-Lydia even has any oxygen to breathe up there.

And now Stiles has to wonder how much of his crush on Lydia in the first place was fuelled by his mom's version of her love story with Dad; her seeing this jock hiding his light under a bushel, and her love helped that light break free…

"Oh," Stiles says, stupidly, "you're home."

"Uh," Dad says, frowning in sudden worry at Stiles' stupid statement, "I hoped that had been obvious before now, what with the embarrassing outpouring of innermost feelings—"

"No," Stiles says, shaking his head. "I mean, I had plans! For when I saw you next! I wanted to talk about the deaths, to get more information about the bodies, and if you think Peter Hale could have—If the bodies while he was incarcerated—"

"Stiles," Dad says. "I love you and you're amazing, but you don't have to shoulder all the mystery on your own. You're not alone. And Chris tells me you have a pack now to look after you too. You don't have to solve the world's problems on your own, kiddo. You've got a lot of people who've got your back. And that—" Dad smiles, and there's no sadness in this one. "That's an amazing thing, Stiles. One you should cherish."

"Yeah," Stiles says, the warmth of the thought sliding against his skin, warming his chest. "Yeah." He sinks back against the couch, frowning. "Um," he starts.

"What?" Dad says, a little more tiredly this time, probably a learned response from years of Stiles' unquenchable thirst for knowledge. Dad will forever be grateful for the invention of Wikipedia. Stiles even caught his dad writing a thank you email to the founders once. It mostly consisted of YOU SAVED MY LIFE in various iterations.

"Well, Derek," Stiles says, regretfully. "I've kind of been emailing him—"

"Kind of been emailing," Dad repeats. "If this is some new-fangled teen slang for, what's it called, cyber sex—"

"Oh my god, dad, no," Stiles says, " _no_ , virgin in all definitions of the word, thank you very much."

"That's my boy," Dad says, approvingly.

Stiles shoots him a disgruntled look. "Most dads want to be proud of their sons being, like, manly fertile studs."

"Most dads don't spend their days dealing with the aftermath of underage sex and drugs and STDs," Dad says. "The studies on—"

"I believe you," Stiles says, quickly. "I just—It was me. Jennifer – Julia – the Darach—She used my contact with him, my interactions, as a model for _using_ him, Dad. She used me to _use him_ , how can I—" He shakes his head and exhales before looking up at his dad, hands clenching into fists. "Should I stop emailing him? Because—"

"Stiles," Dad says. "Bad people will find a way to twist anything. She already ruined so much." He gives Stiles a heavy look. "Do you want to let her ruin more things? Especially something which… which might be a really good thing."

Dad looks like the last of those words do hurt a little to say, and Stiles huffs a sound which might be a laugh, but his throat hurts too much to make the sound, and it's too much to translate it as a sound of joy right now.

"It's just difficult talking to someone when an evil murderous druid's been messing stuff up for both of you," Stiles says. "I don't even know how I should be talking to him."

Dad squints, thoughtfully. "Try honestly," he says, after a moment, and Stiles does make a huffing sound at that. "It's worked for us, hasn't it?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, and because honesty is the theme of the day, he repeats it. "Yeah, it works for us."

His dad smiles, and leans into him, and Stiles leans forward into his dad's embrace.

Yeah. Honesty hurts but it can be good too. Stiles keeps that thought in his mind, and he squeezes his dad one last time before heading upstairs, feeling better than he has for all of the last few weeks. He can still feel the darkness in his heart, it's still there as a lingering scar, but it also feels like it has… less of a hold on him, and that's an amazing thing; Stiles finds himself taking two stairs at a time in anticipation. Not even a ghost could ruin his mood now, he thinks.

There isn't a ghost upstairs, and Stiles loads up his laptop, dropping into the bathroom to wash his face, and man, this is probably the most unattractive he's ever looked, and that's including the time he and Scott found an electric razor and thought it would be funny to try and draw a smily face in Stiles' hair. Yeah, there's a reason Stiles had a buzzcut for so long.

Stiles washes his face with cold water. His eyes are red and bloodshot, and he pads through to his bedroom, unsure of whether to hope Derek's going to be online or not, because if Derek _had_ even in the slightest possibility of anything approaching positive feelings to him, the way Stiles looks right now would eradicate that 0.01% of good feelings immediately. But the idea of talking to Derek again, face to face—

Wow, Stiles' palms are actually sweaty. What the hell. Oh, man. He's never gone slow when it comes to crushes, though – he's a zero to everything kind of guy. One moment he was unaware of Lydia Martin's existence, and the next he was penning terrible odes to the cascading strawberry blonde waves of her beautiful hair; now the terrifying prospects of Derek turning their aggression of the past into a new form of energy is frighteningly hair-raising.

And, uh, other things raising, apparently.

Huh.

There's the answer to the question Stiles hadn't braved to ask himself yet of whether he is physically interested in Derek.

It's a yes. Werewolves on a cracker dancing the hula, it's definitely a yes. Stiles stares down at his lap in silent appalled judgment, and sighs.

Well, this provides an explanation to Stiles' expression when Derek pressed him into the door. Stiles automatically finds himself flicking back to the photo folder, and finds the one – Derek had threatened him, and Stiles had been a death-defying idiot and tugged on his jacket – and yeah, flirting. Flirting had apparently been going on even back then. Ugh, Stiles is the most oblivious person in the world.

And he still has a hard-on.

For a moment he considers it, because it's been _way_ too long since he last took himself in hand, so to speak. Maybe some of the simmering frustration is down to that, the inability to gain some much needed relief, because of the constant worry that maybe there's a lodestone he missed, or maybe there's a ghost watching, or maybe something _else_ will happen to ruin their lives. Stiles is frustrated enough without adding sexual tension to the list, but he can't make himself do anything about it. Just because there are no ghosts around right now doesn't mean one won't suddenly pop up, and Stiles really doesn't want to go through the trauma of losing a boner inches from climax, no sirree.

And actually it's the mental image of Victoria Argent's shark-like expression that kills his erection. Stiles might have to remember that trick, especially considering his Wednesday morning Home Ec class which is practically exclusively populated by a handful of geeks like Stiles – and nearly all of Beacon Hill's cheerleading squad.

 _What_. Just because Stiles is apparently occasionally warm for a werewolf form doesn't mean he's suddenly not human.

Stiles loads up his email, and smiles softly at the two notifications in his inbox, both from IAMNOTASOURWOLF@GMAIL.COM. He clicks on the oldest one first, which is actually a couple of days old; it's the list of food which should make Scott gag. Ha. Derek's a total legend. Cora gives a couple of suggestions in the postscript too – it's a list of Mexican foods which are "regretfully the shit"; Derek follows up that comment with a post-postscript – apparently Cora meant that literally.

Stiles finds himself smiling over the Hale siblings' antics, and clicks on the newest email automatically, and the disappointment is swift and harsh.

It's just two words, and a name.

STAY SAFE

-DEREK.

And that's it.

Nothing else.

Disappointment curls up in Stiles' body before he even realizes what the feeling is, and he flings himself across the room, curling up into his bed under the covers and scowling fiercely into his pillow. He doesn't even know what he had been expecting, what he had been wanting to find – STAY SAFE just feels like a brush off. Like Derek's suddenly got plans, and Stiles can't know them, just like Scott's stupid plans.

His head hurts, and the sadness is just as overwhelming as the ache, so he covers his blankets over his head and tries his best to sleep.

#

Stiles does manage to get some sleep, but not enough; as soon as he stumbles downstairs, his dad automatically insists on giving Stiles a ride to the optometrist, and he coerces Dr. Mietek to text him the results of the test directly.

It's not his eyes giving him the headache; Dr. Mietek takes half an hour longer on the tests than he normally does, personally ringing the school to give him the first period off, but he can't find anything putting pressure on Stiles' eyes, and his eyesight hasn't dramatically changed in the last year, although Dr. Mietek gives him the same lecture about not spending hours at a time playing "the games" on his laptop, and that Stiles will probably need glasses by the time he's forty at the rate he's going. He also walks Stiles to the bus stop, which is overly protective; Stiles really wants to know what his dad _said_ to Dr. Mietek when he took him aside earlier, but Dr. Mietek won't tell him.

It's only when Stiles stumbles into American Literature late that he notices Lydia and Scott aren't there. Probably playing hooky again, he mentally reasons. He casts around, but Harley's desk is empty too. Maybe she's playing hooky too because the October Travelling Fair starts tonight, Stiles thinks, and then he goes a little cold; he tries to text Scott under the desk, asking for Harley to be covered in whatever plans they have for tonight and tomorrow's patrols, but Mr. Hardie confiscates Stiles' cellphone after he hits send.

Stiles can't quite raise the energy to care. Most of the day is like that; he thinks about leaving the school to look for the pack, but then he thinks about how disappointed his dad would be. How happy his dad was that Stiles didn't always have to be face-first involved in all the doom and gloom, and along with the headache, it's enough to keep Stiles in school.

At least right up until gym class; Mr. Donald sends Stiles to the nurse's office. It's probably Greenburg, tattling on Stiles for throwing up in the changing room toilet, but Stiles has been feeling queasy for the last couple of weeks – vomiting doesn't feel like much in the face of everything else that they're fighting against at the moment. This time, Stiles actually goes to the nurse's office, and is rewarded with a whole period of lying on the bed, because the nurse is out in the east block, dealing with the freshman's first dissection class; there are always a ton of fainters. Scott even had a nosebleed for their first dissection. Good times, good times.

Stiles sneaks out of the nurse's office, because an hour of lying down and feeling sorry for himself is enough, and he hides out in the bathroom until the end bell rings before heading to English to retrieve his cell phone.

"Your headache's getting worse, isn't it?" Victoria Argent asks him, following him down the hallway.

Stiles doesn't even spare her a glance, which is probably a good idea; the sophomore students heading in the opposite direction probably would have something to say about Stiles interacting with an invisible person.

"It could be something bad," Victoria says. Stiles grits his teeth, and sidesteps a group of the school's quarterbacks; the football team hasn't figured out that it's the lacrosse team that rule the school, and occasionally they'll take up the entire width of the main hallways, especially when it's lacrosse off-season. "Your mom's illness started with a headache, right? That, and her going crazy? _Seeing_ things?"

So soon after his painful chat with his dad about Mom, Stiles can't take it. "Fuck off," he mutters, scaring a couple of freshman girls; he doesn't even spare them an apologetic glance. Whatever. "I was tested. It's a positive or negative thing. I'm fine."

"Except you've always worried about them getting it wrong," Victoria hisses. "Hospital mix-ups happen all the time. Human error is one of the leading causes of death in this country. You know you should ask them to check again. You haven't told anyone how bad the headaches are, how the symptoms are stacking up… Have you even let yourself see how bad they are? Have you tried putting them in a line, Mr. Stilinski? Looking at how it all adds up?"

Stiles does glare at her; thankfully this section of the hallway is emptier. He knocks at Mr. Hardie's door and tries to swallow down the fear he'll see Jennifer Blake in there, for the universe to go ta-da-that-bitch-ain't-dead on him.

"Don't do it again, Mr. Stilinski," Mr. Hardie says. Stiles nods gratefully, and glances down at the screen; no notifications. Scott didn't even _try_ to include him in the day's plans. Great, just great.

"You're a coward, through and through," Victoria Argent whispers in his ear, and Stiles' whirls on his heel, ready to tell the ghost of Allison's mom exactly where she can go—

And the hallway's empty, apart from a straggling member of the orchestra, struggling to close her violin case and hold a tottering pile of music.

Stiles rubs his forehead, and goes to help the struggling musician; he's felt a weird tang of empathy for the shit the string players get from people at school ever since hearing the story of Paige. The girl looks at him a bit warily, but thanks him for the help; when she hurries away, Stiles glances at the phone in his hand. The screen is dark and works as a mirror; he still looks absolutely terrible. No wonder he was sent to the nurse.

Stiles sighs, and then realizes he's staring down an empty hallway; he suddenly really, really doesn't want to be on his own. He hurries for the nearest exit; he can get the bus home, or to the deputy's office, but he can't remember whether Dad's on shift or not. He forgot to check the schedule. Man, he's not operating on full power right now, at all.

Maybe Victoria's right. Holy crap. But… so far he's been trying _not_ to do what the ghosts say. Stiles sighs, and calls Scott, not entirely expecting his friend to pick up.

Scott actually does – which is weirdly reassuring, because in a backward's sort of way, it's a hint that not everything has hit the fan yet. "Yo," Scott says. "Hey! I was gonna call you – are you out of school yet?"

"No," Stiles says, mollified by being part of Scott's plan after all, even if it's not the part where he could have skipped the school day with the rest of them. "Uh, thinking of heading to the hospital actually."

There's a crackle – wherever Scott is, it isn't good signal. "What? What's happened? Are you all right?"

The panic in Scott's voice is more gratifying than it should be. "Yeah," Stiles says, "and no," he adds, because the honesty thing is probably a good shtick to try. "I mean, it's just- my headaches are getting pretty bad, man, and that's how my mom's illness started showing symptoms, so—"

"Shit," Scott says, "of course, of course – Dude. I'm there for you, just let me convince Isaac he's a big bad werewolf totally capable of patrolling on his own—"

"Nah, bro, it's probably nothing," Stiles says, because it's one thing wanting Scott to include him in his plans, but another to make Scott ruin his plans just because Stiles is getting overly touchy about a headache which is probably nothing. Then again, just because he doesn't have what his mom has… It doesn't mean he's clear and free from something _else_. "I can handle a nurse prodding at my head, Scott. You go save the day."

"The twins are in rotation near the hospital anyway," Scott says, "so call one of them if you get into trouble."

"Will do," Stiles says.

"And let me know what they say," Scott demands, which comes through clearly despite the crackly signal.

"Yeah," Stiles says, and manages to be a grown up for one freaking second and doesn't tag on something passive-aggressive about Scott maybe one day returning the damn favor. "Just—I know you don't want to talk about it, but your ghosts, do they – Do your ghosts tell you to do good things?"

"Uh," Scott says, his voice coming through patchily. "No," he says, "never."

The signal cuts off then, and Stiles stares at his phone, unsure of how to feel. His ghost is telling him to go to the hospital…

But if the ghosts never say anything good…

Stiles heads out of the school, moving to the bus stop which will take him to the hospital, lost in thought. His ghosts aren't saying anything too coherent to him, really; Erica told him to become an emissary, but Heather seems annoyed by it. Victoria just shows up to revel in his weakness, and Kate likes violence and sex, not necessarily in that order. Boyd is silent. His mom just apparently wants to whisper in his ear and freak him out. There's no consistent message. Allison's open enough to say that Kate's just basically cheering her on to become a psychopathic killer, and Scott's so closed up, Stiles doesn't really know. There's no base line to work from.

Still, he knows one thing – when he was being diagnosed for Attention Deficit, there were a few other terms in there; most prominently, Oppositional Defiance Disorder, meaning Stiles' automatic response to most things, especially being told what to do, is nope. No. Not gonna happen. No sirree.

If there is a dark force in the tree, a dead witch drawing on the darkness in their heart to speak to their subconscious, to manifest their subconscious into the people that will scare them the most… Then this force would have figured out this much about Stiles, that he doesn't do what he's told. Don't go into the preserve at night – _I'm gonna go into the preserve_. Don't bother people – _Danny for the hundredth time, do gay guys find me attractive_? Always drive safely – _let's_ _ram my Jeep through the side of a warehouse wall_.

Don't taunt the monsters – _hey, fuckface, look over here._

So in telling Stiles to go to the hospital… they could be telling him not to go… so Stiles needs to go to mess with them. But then that's doing what they're _telling_ him to, and man, if Stiles _didn't_ have a headache, he's got one now.

He thinks of his mom, of his dad's disappointed face at learning if she'd gone to the hospital a month earlier than maybe—just maybe—some of that debilitating pain at the end could have been lessened, and that cements his decision.

Right until he gets up to the doorway of the Memorial Hospital, and almost freezes on the threshold, because it's true, there is a one in billion chance the test was wrong. Huntington's is still a terrifying possibility of his future, and if the test was wrong… it's a death sentence.

He thinks about his mom's diagnosis, how she waited too late to find out, and how would his dad feel about Stiles having it too, and what if they want to do a blood test, and Stiles did not think through saying he didn't want Scott here, he totally wants Scott here, or his dad, or even Allison and her terrible singing, and oh great, now Boyd's here too, silently staring and judging him for being alive, how dare he even have the right, how did Stiles get to live when he died, and wow, yeah, Boyd nearly died in a bath too, and Stiles' thoughts are going a mile a minute, and the sidewalk is cotton candy beneath his feet—

The next thing he really knows, he feels the pressure of hands against his back, and by the time his breathing comes back under control – someone forcing him to breathe with their counting, no kissing this time – Stiles is in one of the hospital's white examination room, and Melissa's shining a penlight into his eyes.

"Well, you haven't been sleeping well," Melissa says, her voice melodic, "don't even need my extensive medical training to notice that."

"Sorry," Stiles says, "sorry, you're so busy, I-"

Melissa catches hold of both of his elbows, the metal of her penlight a shock against his arm, and she looks at him until he looks her back in the eye. "Stiles, you had a panic attack. Which means you're not okay. Lucky for you, you had it in the right place, where there are people like _me_ who make not okay people okay. Or as okay as we can."

Stiles pulls a face.

"Now is there a reason you were near the hospital? Is it something specific that's trigged the attack, or-"

"Did you call my dad?" Stiles ask wearily, rubbing at his head – his back is sore, so maybe he fell during his panic attack, he can't quite remember.

"Sorry, kiddo, it's protocol," Melissa says. "Is your dad—"

"No, god no, he's not—Nothing to do with this," Stiles gestures at his head. "I just—ever since the root cellar—I've been getting these headaches. And while they could just be some funky-ass manifestation of the Nemeton, Allison and Scott aren't getting them, so—"

"Yeah, absolutely," Melissa says. "Yes. I'm just surprised you've waited this long. Let's get you checked out, kiddo." She gives him a friendly touch on the cheek, knowing how much this is costing him, because she was as much there for his mom in the end as any of them.

She can't have many favors left, but Melissa somehow works her magic, and gets Stiles into get a CT scan in minutes after hearing his list of symptoms, and Stiles is fairly sure that's impossibly quick, but by the time he's out, his dad is waiting in the corridor outside, looking pinch-faced and stressed, and Stiles feels ridiculous.

"You should have told me you were coming," Dad breathes, tugging Stiles in for a hug, even though Stiles is still only wearing a flimsy hospital gown and he's feeling awfully vulnerable in it.

"Last minute thing," Stiles says. "I knew I'd talk myself out of it if I planned it. And I was half thinking I'd call you from the hospital and I sort of have a little bit of a panic attack in the lobby? Just a little one?"

"Oh, boy," his dad breathes.

"We need to do some blood tests," Melissa says, and Stiles opens his mouth to protest.

Dad's eyes glint. "What a great idea," he says.

Stiles scowls at him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_“Even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence—but more generally takes the form of apathy.”_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

So after being overprotective for the rest of the day, it takes Stiles a _lot_ to get his dad to agree to let him go out with Scott on Halloween night, and Stiles actually owes Chris Argent a favor – he doesn't know what Chris actually says _to_ his dad, but afterwards, his dad agrees that he can go. If he takes five pouches of mountain ash. _And_ a Taser. And a knife. And his phone. _Two_ phones. And has another long, stinging salt bath.

( _Two_ salt baths. Argh.)

Stiles opens his mouth to tell his dad that he's overreacting, but the note on the fridge to remind them to call the doctor tomorrow for the results of Stiles' CT scan and blood tests quiets him.

"Blood tests?" Scott asks on the way to the fair, wincing on Stiles' behalf. It was nice of Scott to take the bus with him; the fair's just a few minutes' walk away from the nearest stop. "Dude. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Stiles says, kicking at the sidewalk. "Dad was there, so it sucked less."

"Yeah," Scott says, "I guess. I just know how much you hate needles."

"There's a reason for that, isn't there," Kate says, leaning against a street sign. "How would Scott feel about it if he knew?"

Stiles blanks her out.

"So what's the plan?" Stiles asks, looking ahead. There's a lot of traffic, and Stiles feels weirdly nervous thinking of all the people passing by them. Probably the knowledge that there's at least one monster around. Still, Stiles is in good company, and if anyone's going to save Stiles from accidentally tasing himself, it'll be Beacon Hills' very own True Alpha.

"My dad's already at the fair," Scott says. "The twins are following him and a couple of his buddies. I think they've had the same idea we had, 'cause your dad's people are out in force too."

"Oh," Stiles says, rubbing at his forehead. "Man, I wondered why he was so willing at the end to let me go."

"I kind of understand the urge to be overprotective," Scott says. "I—I'm sorry I didn't get you to the hospital sooner."

"Dude," Stiles says. "Agency. I'm perfectly capable of remembering to do that sort of thing for myself. I didn't. Because I didn't _want_ to, I guess." He kicks again at the sidewalk, and hits a stone that bounds into the road; it narrowly misses a car hurtling past them, and bounces safely into the almost empty right-side of the road.

"Yeah," Scott says, "but I should have—"

"I already have a parent, Scott. You're my best friend, okay? And it's not like you've got nothing on your mind right now."

"Yeah, but, _best friend._ I'm allowed to feel guilty and be weirdly vigilant. It's in the best friend code."

"Yeah, okay," Stiles says.

"Along with teasing," Scott says, not looking Stiles in the face.

"Ugh," Stiles says. "Go back to telling me the plan."

"Follow him until we can corner him, I guess," Scott says, shrugging. "There's enough shelter around that we should still be able to manage it in a public space. You've got mountain ash and can do your magic mojo without covering yourself in it, right?"

Stiles glares. "I can. Deaton warned when I picked it up that I could wear myself out. Like… emissaries can provide a spark to make the mountain ash work, but it's not limitless."

"Spark," Scott repeats. "That's what could set dad off into remembering he's an Alpha, right?"

"If he _is_ an Alpha," Stiles says. "Remember, we're just working off a whole bundle of hypotheses."

"I've been thinking about that, actually," Scott says, frowning. "I know you're trying to distract me from talking about Derek, and you're hands-down one of the best distractions in Beacon County—"

Stiles coughs as a hint.

"California?" Scott says, and Stiles coughs again. "Man, I'll settle on Master of Distractions on the West Coast, but my mom's cousin in New York can beat you hands down, so—"

"I'll settle for West Coast," Stiles says.

" _If_ my dad is an Alpha," Scott says, "then Deaton said it never goes away, so you or I could spark him into remembering it."

"Yeah. So we've got to be careful and not say anything."

"If the Alpha power can't go away," Scott says, slowly, "then maybe Derek's still an Alpha. I mean. Just think about who told him he wasn’t."

"Peter," Stiles says. His steps slow a little, because his brain can't keep up with thinking and providing flawless motion; it's the reason why he is so eternally clumsy. "Shit."

"I mean," Scott says, " _we_ believe what he says. Or we wouldn't be looking for incubi as well as werewolves. So why wouldn't Derek? He's kind—" Scott wrinkles his nose. "I hate to insult your _boyfriend_ —"

"Shove it, McCall," Stiles says, "don't think I won't tase you to the sidewalk."

"Eh, you could try," Scott says, grinning too wide for it to be a real threat. "He's gullible. I think we all are. When it comes to information about this stuff… we're in over our heads half the time."

"There should be a manual," Stiles says. "If we survive high school, I might write it."

"I'll help," Scott promises.

"Duh," Stiles says, "no way are you getting out of it, buster. Not even a—" He falls silent, realizing something, and he frowns.

"What? Did you forget the end of your sentence? Because normally that only used to happen when Lydia walked past, and she's already in the fair, her Facebook is already _mashed_ with pictures of her pouting into a cloud of cotton candy—"

"Since _when_ does Lydia have you on Facebook?" Stiles asks, sparing Scott a glare. "Never mind. Just we've got a problem, is all." Scott's face is reaction enough. "Your plan mostly relied on getting away with it under cover of the general public, yeah?"

"I guess," Scott says. "I mean, we thought about waiting until tonight, get him somewhere on his own, but—Sooner the better. If he's the one killing people—" Scott's shoulders tense. "But—"

"Look at the traffic," Stiles says, and gestures.

All the traffic is on their side of the road, coming their way.

Which means that for some reason, people are leaving the carnival, not going to it.

"Oh, man," Scott says, and his jaw juts mulishly. Stiles knows that expression, oh _boy_ does he know that expression. Scott's going to keep going whatever gets in the way.

"C'mon," Stiles says. "I can't do that cute all fours scampering you do, but I can run." He takes off before Scott can protest his use of the word _scampering_.

When they get to the end of the sidewalk, and look down the slope that leads to the normally-empty fields, there does seem to be some sort of mass exodus going on. The rides are only half lit up, and there's already a group of what looks like ride owners bickering nearby. That's the problem with the Beacon County fair; it's lot of disparate small groups which come together to form a bigger fair. It's not a cohesive _pack_ , it's more like eighty Omegas have gotten together to run something.

Which is somewhat of an ironic metaphor, really.

Stiles takes a moment to take in the scents of the fair – he hasn't been back since he came with his mom, and not just because it hasn't been back to Beacon Hills since then; his dad offered every year to take him to Beacon Heights, or Beacon Vale, the carnival's more-usual locations. It smells just like he remembers – the haziest tang of grease and steam.

Then Stiles has a kind of a stupid moment, when he sees a bunch of tiny werewolves; he might sort of flail and scream.

The scream might be a little high pitched.

The high-pitched scream makes the tiny pack of werewolves stop and stare at the crazy boy making a scene.

"Dude," Scott says, "it's _Halloween._ Trick or treating? Wearing cheap masks in order to score candy off strangers?"

Stiles winces. "Sorry! You scared me!" he yells over to the kids; the adult shepherding them, wearing an obnoxious rubber mask of their own (which now Stiles is looking does _not_ resemble a werewolf at all – not even close to enough facial hair), gives him a scandalized look. Stiles smacks Scott in the arm. "Dude, it's _Halloween._ Kids are trick or treating! What the hell are we going to do?"

"Mr. Argent's called in some friends," Scott says, and jerks his head back at the town. "They're patrolling the town and the woods; he's trusting us to cover the fair."

"Oh," Stiles says, calming down. "Oh, man. I wouldn't be so panicked if you ever _let me in_ on this stuff, man."

Scott blinks ."I thought I—" He starts walking, shoving his hand in his pockets and looking troubled. "Man. I thought I had. Shit. Shit, I'm the worst best friend ever – I just get so used to us thinking the same thing, that—"

"We haven't thought the same thing for a while, Scott," Stiles says, following him, keeping his eyes averted from Scott's face. "Or maybe I'd have twigged onto your plan with Gerard. Or not felt so _lost_ when you walked off with Deucalion."

"I _had_ to—" Scott says, weakly, running a hand through his hair.

"Where are the others?" Stiles asks, cutting through Scott's excuses; he's not in the mood to hear them.

"Isaac's that way," he says, softly, pointing to the part of the fair which is still lit up. Apparently not _everyone_ is leaving the fair. "And it's not like—"

Stiles sighs as Scott trails off. "Yeah," he says, not needing Scott to finish the sentence. They're both guilty, and it doesn't matter who started keeping secrets first, because if Stiles had been too scandalized by it, he'd have called Scott out the first time, not turned around and kept the secret of the Alpha pack being in town in return. It's not like they didn't have a history of calling each other on their shit. "Yeah. I guess it's part of growing up," Stiles finishes, hating that he's too much of ca coward to replace that with _growing apart._

"Growing up _sucks,_ " Scott says, fervently. "I'll try harder."

Stiles looks over at him this time. "Me too."

Scott grins, one of those patented McCall beams of sunshine. "C'mon," he says, clapping Stiles on the shoulder. "Let's go see if we can find a secluded corner so you can tase my dad."

"You always know the sweetest things to say to me, Scott," Stiles says. "It _totally_ makes me horny for you."

"Shut up," Scott says, embarrassed, and stays quiet until they've reached the edge of the fair. The ticket gate still takes their money, even _with_ the evacuation, and Scott and Stiles walk purposefully past the townspeople heading the opposite direction. Isaac beckons them over to a brightly lit food van, which is stationed in front of a couple of empty transportation trucks, meaning it's a sheltered space away from the people and booths and lights.

Stiles wants to take in the sights of the fair properly, wants to be able to paint the scene again in his mind later, recreate it fully-formed and bright in his memory, but everything's kind of a blur, too many sounds and colors and too-bright lights which hurt his eyes.

Allison and Isaac are there waiting for them.

"There's been a body found on the Ferris Wheel," Allison says, holding her midriff and looking worried. She _has_ to be packing weapons, but Stiles is struck just how much she looks like a normal teenage girl heading out to a fair to hang out with her friends. "The sheriff's department are evacuating the east side of the fair to rope it off as a crime scene, but people have been leaving from the west, too. If we follow your dad, we're going to start to look conspicuous."

"Then we need to trap him," Scott says, pulling out his phone to check the twin's progress on his texts; Stiles peeks over but loses the will to live, because the twins are worse at texting than Scott, so he pulls back and turns back so he can watch a little of what's going on outside this small enclosure.

There should be more people in costume, considering the day. Stiles thinks it's down to Beacon Hill's terrible reputation. There have always been whispers of things going bump in the night for as long as Stiles can remember. It's only recently that Stiles has bothered to research properly to discover what the truth might be in those stories.

He wonders how many of the stories have an origin in the Hale pack's decision to make Beacon Hills their home.

"Lydia's with Aiden," Isaac explains, seeing Stiles peering around the food van. "And Ethan's tracking Mr. McCall's buddies."

"If there's already one dead body," Allison says, "I don't think we can risk just waiting. I think we need to force him to show his hand."

"We need somewhere close then," Scott says. "And relatively enclosed."

"Somewhere we can trap him," Allison says.

"Hang on a sec," Stiles says, pacing back, seeing a glimpse of a familiar profile, and grinning. "I think I might have an idea. Wait here." He holds up a hand, and jogs out through the gap – and he was totally right. "Hey, hey, pretty girl – wanna stop and talk with me a while?"

Harley pauses in her tracks, her whole body swiveling to find the source of the annoyance, her face arranged into an almost hilarious expression of hatred – which relaxes when she sees it's him. "Hey," Harley says, running up to him in excitement. She's just dressed in civvies, which is weird; Stiles thought she might be in a spooky costume. "Did you come to support me?"

"Yeah," Stiles lies. "Totally."

"My ride got shut down," Harley says, jerking her head in the direction of the Ferris Wheel – the ghost train must be nearby. "Total bummer. Thankfully my outfit was just a sheet, because hell _no_ am I walking home alone in what some of my colleagues were wearing."

Stiles pauses. "You _shouldn't_ walk home alone," he says.

Harley gives him a derisive look. "I can handle myself. Besides, hypocritical much. _You're_ on your own."

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but then remembers Scott, Allison and Isaac are behind the food van.

"Besides, I have protection," Harley says, and pulls out something from her pocket.

Stiles grins, and holds out his matching Taser. "Snap!"

Harley laughs. "Oh, my god. Sheriff's son, packing some _zap_."

"That's me," Stiles says, solemnly. "Zap central."

Harley nods, and makes a move as if to leave.

"Sorry about all this," Stiles says. "I was really looking forward to you scaring the crap out of me."

"Hmm," Harley says, "attractive. I'm so sorry I missed it."

"Will you still get paid?" Stiles asks, tilting his head curiously. A little girl and her mom walking past look at him oddly; maybe Stiles is talking too loud.

"Aw, thanks for the concern. I don't think so." She smiles at him. "The fair's shutting down. You should come with me. We can hang out. They're pulling that house down in the woods. The one you used to go stalk at a lunchtime. What was it called—"

"The Hale house," Stiles says, wincing. "Nah, I'm okay."

"It's not that safe to stay. And if you were planning to come to the fair to support me, it means you have time." Harley's smile fades, and her grip tightens a little on her Taser, still out of her pocket. "So why not?"

"I'm here with Scott."

"He can come too. There's a bus leaving in three minutes with my name on it. Come _with_ me."

Stiles winces. "I would _love_ to. But…"

"Right." Harley's face tightens. "Always something better to do than hang out with me." She turns away again.

"That's not it," Stiles says, and hurriedly backs up, standing in her way. "Harley, you have to believe me. I can't come with you today. I can't tell you why—at least not now—but it's important you get home. Now. Please, trust me on this one. I'm finding Scott and doing the same, I promise. But it's not safe to be out, and I—" He crosses his fingers behind his back and hopes Harley's missed that Roscoe's been prominently missing for weeks. "I gave Scott and Isaac a ride here, I can't fit you in. And I can't leave Roscoe here."

Harley's eyes narrow. "I guess we can do it another day."

Stiles sighs. Yeah, he's going to have to work hard to repair their friendship _again_ over the next few weeks. "Anyway—" he says, pushing on.

"Ah, you didn't want to just say hi to my fabulous self," Harley sighs, "you _want_ something."

"Two things?" Stiles says, wincing. "I promise I'll make it up to you next week?"

Harley glares. "You'd better," she says. "Shoot."

Stiles jogs back to the others after getting the info, promising to take Harley to the movies _and_ get her popcorn _and_ help babysit her little brother the week before Christmas.

"The Mirror Maze is still here from, like, ten years ago," Stiles says, and Scott frowns.

"Didn't you get stuck in that once?" Scott says, tilting his head.

"Yeah," Stiles says. "And there's a mechanism release in the back to _free_ people who get stuck and start screaming like—"

"A banshee?" Lydia says snippily, stalking into the small enclosure and giving Stiles an appraising look. Aiden's behind her, looking annoyed. "Was that where you were going to go? _Really_?"

"Ethan's got an eye on him," Aiden says quietly to Scott.

"I was going to go with screaming like Jackson when he saw your face without makeup," Stiles says, feeling a little mean. "But sure, banshee works just as well."

Lydia rolls her eyes. Stiles checks her out, just by general force of habit really. She's wearing six inch heels. On uneven grassy ground. And it took them _how_ long to find out she had supernatural powers? Seriously?

"So lead him into the maze," Scott says, "and…" He frowns.

"Trap him and ask him questions, of course," Stiles says, pulling out a pouch of mountain ash.

"Right," Scott says. "So… we'll go ahead so Stiles can put the circle of ash in." He looks at the twins, Isaac and Allison. "You four think you can lure my dad into that specific tent?"

Aiden smiles, teeth lengthening as he cracks his knuckles. "Oh, I think we can come up with _something_."

"After all," Ethan says, his wolf face slowly crawling into being, "it's Halloween."

#

It's weirdly easy in the end to lure Kyle McCall into the trap.

First they lure Kyle away from his lackeys – Aiden wolfs out, and while most of the people passing him think it's a costume, Kyle obviously recognizes him as a werewolf, and gives chase.

Then he, Isaac and Ethan play a weird game of jumping out and leading Kyle in one direction, luring him right into the mirror maze, and Stiles wishes he was inside the mirror maze, because that must be the mindfuck of the century being pinned down by twins in a mirror maze.

Scott yells _now_ , and the twins pull out and they pull the mechanism to pull just the inside circle of the mirrors down, and Stiles does his job – locking eyes with Kyle McCall across the dim light and putting down one last handful of mountain ash to close the circle he'd lain around the outside of the inner circle.

The sound Kyle makes is amazing; Stiles thrills with it as he straightens, glaring at Kyle and smirking his best shit-eating smirk. The inside of the tent is creepy – there are beams across the ceiling, covered in fairy lights, and the mirrors now lying on the ground give the tent an eerie, fantastical atmosphere.

Outside, Lydia and Allison should be finishing up distracting the maze owner. Stiles didn't exactly ask for details on that part of the plan. He _did_ loan them his Taser without a second's protest, though.

It leaves just Stiles and the twins in the tent glaring at the target of their trap, and Kyle glaring back at them angrily – until Scott and Isaac walk into the tent, stepping over two of the mirrors lying flat on the ground.

For a moment, there's fear on Kyle's face.

Then he shakes himself.

"You," Kyle says, and steps forward in Stiles' direction. He's still calm, still human. "I don't know what sort of prank you're playing here, Stilinski, but I'm sure you're aware of just how badly this sort of acting-out reflects on your father. He might just lose his badge again, is that what you want?"

It's typical, Kyle still lying in the face of being caught, of being _trapped._ Of trying to turn this back on Stiles, to make Scott blame _him_ for anything weird about this night. Stiles has such respect for Melissa McCall's strength, because surviving even a _week_ of being married to this scumbag must have required _so_ much strength.

Stiles pauses, as if he's thinking about Kyle's question. He keeps his smirk, though. "Well, if I'm just a kid playing silly games, you should be able to come on over here and slap me. There's no one around here who would tell." Stiles' smirk widens even more. "Unless there's some sordid reason why a handful of mountain ash would stop you from moving out of that circle?"

"You little—" Kyle snarls, and in the dim light, Stiles can see a hint of his canines lengthening. Then the control comes back to him, and he sets his shoulders back a bit, shaking his head in disbelief. "The Animal Clinic. Deaton is _Alan_ Deaton _._ I should have—My sources told me he'd retired, but—"

"I think we'll be asking the questions," Scott barks out.

Kyle's gaze flies to Stiles, furious. "Don't do this, Stiles, please. He's my son." Kyle looks back at Scott. "I don't know what he's told you, but it's lies. It's all lies. Your friend's wrong in the head, Scott. He's—"

"He's my best friend, who's never hurt me," Scott says, and he tilts his chin, managing to look down on Kyle McCall even though his father towers half a foot over all of them. "And you're the man who stepped back and let his brother do terrible things to me. Tell me who you would you believe, huh?"

"Whatever he's told you—" Kyle starts.

"I haven't told him much," Stiles says, because 'I think your dad's a werewolf' isn't many words. "I've theorised some, though. Like isn't it funny how the body count rose when you came into town?"

"The body count was rising well before I got here," Kyle snaps. "It didn't need any help from me—" He obviously notices something on Scott and Stiles' faces. "And I haven't been adding to it now! I'm trying to find the killer."

"Sure you are," Scott says, fingers curling into fists. Stiles can feel the tension coursing through his friend, blisteringly hot. "Werewolf."

Kyle flinches. "I—"

"Your teeth are showing, dumbass," Stiles says. "Also your eyebrows have disappeared. Which is always a ridiculous feature of werewolves, why _does_ that happen?"

"I—" Kyle blurts, and sighs, and with a sour side-look at Stiles, he wolfs out the rest of the way – claws sliding out, hair lengthening, brow rearranging itself. "I never wanted you to know. Scott. Please." He looks at his son over the mountain ash barrier, his eyes pleading. "I didn't want you to know about the kind of monster I really was, the kind of monster—"

"Did you ever intend on telling me?" Scott says. "Seeing as, I don't know, it's kind of a hereditary thing sometimes?"

"You would have turned long before I left," Kyle says. "No born werewolf remains human through their first full moon of puberty. None of them. You were safe, you didn't need to know—" He glares in Stiles' direction with loathing. "And now your so-called friend has exposed you to a dangerous world that neither of you have any idea how to handle. You think a little pouch of mountain ash is going to save you from the things going bump in the night? Hmm? There are lots of nasty things worse than _Uncle Harold_ out there." Kyle glares witheringly at Stiles, and looks imploringly at Scott. "Just let me out. I can protect you."

"How? You're just an Omega," Stiles says, folding his arms and glaring at Kyle.

Kyle flinches, and he resumes glaring at Stiles with loathing.

"But," Scott says, shaking his head, "isn't—"

"What we hypothesized," Stiles says. "It doesn't matter. I can smell it now I'm looking for it. Same smell that was in his car."

Scott frowns, and sniffs, tentatively, his face folded up. "Lavender?"

"Covers a lot of scents," Stiles says. "Including weak-ass eau-de-Omega."

"So you've read a couple of websites," Kyle says. "This world is _dangerous,_ you can't read a couple of Wikipedia pages and think you can handle it – there are more monsters out in this world than you know." He turns to Scott, pleading. "I've been protecting you. Like I always have."

"What?" Scott blurts. "When the hell—"

"I protected you from the truth," Kyle says. "How can you sleep knowing werewolves are real? How will you ever feel safe again?"

"Never!" Scott yells, and Kyle looks smug until Scott continues, "But that's a luxury you took from me. What Harry did to me – that will never leave me. It's never left me. And he never used claws, or disappearing eyebrows, or pointy teeth to do it – just words. But that was more than enough to scar me for life. So what else is _left_ for you to protect me from?"

"I—" Kyle starts.

"And it's not like you are protecting me even _now_ ," Scott says, and his shoulders tense – and Stiles can almost feel the air displace around them, as Scott stops doing whatever it is to hide his scent and just goes for it. Full True Alpha mode: engaged. His eyes blaze red, and his claws shine out in the dark. "You _will_ submit to me," Scott says, in a low voice that Stiles has never heard before; it's power, deep and sure, and it's terrifying. "And then you will _leave_ my territory."

Kyle makes this _sound_ , and it's like being shot and gutted, and like deep hopelessness; it's a wounded puppy sound, if Stiles has to describe it in a way someone else might understand, but even that's serving it poorly as a description. It's visceral, and Kyle's eyes burn yellow, his mouth wobbling in obvious despair.

"Scott—" Kyle says, his voice barely there, tense and shaky all at once. "This is so far from what I wanted for you, what happened—Who did this to you?"

"I don't care what you want," Scott says, a little shrilly, but Stiles puts a hand on Scott's shoulder, realizing something. His gut feels heavy all of a sudden; all the exhilaration of success on trapping Kyle gone in a second. Now he just feels _sad_ , because Kyle does look utterly, completely defeated – and they're so very far from learning who's behind the killing.

Because it's not Kyle.

The rabid Omega said their Alpha could see into your soul with blue, piercing… He hadn’t finished the sentence, but Stiles had assumed it was _eyes,_ and if that's right…

"Look at his eyes," Stiles says, softly.

Scott flickers a look at Stiles, and then slowly to Kyle's yellow eyes. "It could be contact lenses," Scott says, slowly.

"He isn't the killer," Stiles says, squeezing Scott's shoulder commiseratively; Scott's claws start to go back in automatically at the surprise of it, at the _relief_ at the idea his dad might be a jerk, but at least he's not a murderer. "He's a lying liar who lies, but he's not the killer." He looks dispassionately over at Kyle. "Tell Scott again. Let him listen to your heartbeat."

"I'm not a killer," Kyle says. "Point of fact I was here to _catch_ the killer. There's an artefact that can help an Omega werewolf suck up the power of other Omegas, to reach the Alpha status on their own without a spark." He reaches into his jacket pocket slowly; Scott pulls Stiles behind him protectively and nods for him to continue. It's a carved box, a lot like the one that Jennifer Blake had in her apartment – the one Cora and Derek thought cursed. "There's only two of these in the world, I thought if I laid a trail—If I gave them someone to come after—"

Scott frowns. "He's telling the truth," Scott says. "So what, now we're back to square one?"

"Peter," Stiles says. "Except then how to do you explain the six deaths while he was in my dad's cells?"

"Herbs," Kyle says. "That's the theory I was working on. There are herbs which Omega werewolves are particularly susceptible too – especially if they've been driven feral by some sort of power distortion – like your local telluric current activity, it's all over the place – The herbs can bend another werewolf to your will, and if their goal is close enough, killing, it can.. Temporarily make them puppets." Kyle's wolf recedes; his human face crumples into a very serious frown. "They're rare. I tried looking into a local herbalist that might have them, because they're usually so rare, but I've come up cold so far—"

"Back in JB's apartment," Stiles mutters, even though it's not quiet enough for a werewolf to hear, "Peter said he found cooking herbs over the microwave. I can't speak for you, but I assumed cooking food, not cooking _minds_."

"Dammit." Scott facepalms for a long moment. "We need to find him. Stiles, break the mountain ash."

"Yeah," Peter's voice says from the back of the tent, "Stiles, break the mountain ash."

The mechanism only lowered the inside circuit of mirrors – the outer ones are still there, and Stiles turns in time to see Peter step through the gap; he detaches from the darkness into a smudge of color, his face disjointedly displaying in eight different mirrors at once.

Flanking him are six werewolves, probably Omegas, and Stiles thinks he recognizes two of them – and he'd bet pretty strongly that three of the other four were in the group Kyle McCall kicked out of the Senator the other day.

Their faces are a little vacant, and one of them – the oldest of the Omegas – seems to be frothing at the mouth.

"Yeah, those herbs are pretty helpful," Peter says, placidly smiling. "It makes these guys incredibly pliant. It's just a shame too much of them can send them… a little off the rails." He claps the one frothing at the mouth on the shoulder, smiling. "Hello, Lydia."

"Is someone talking?" Lydia says, affecting a bored expression, but even Stiles can feel the terror coiling into her. "They'll have to speak louder. I don't understand _weak idiot._ "

"Nice burn," Stiles compliments in a whisper.

"What do you want, Hale?" Kyle asks.

"Well," Peter says, tilting his head to one side, "I hate to be predictable, but… that box or your lives."

"Dad, stay in the circle. Don't let Peter have the box. Whatever happens to us," Scott orders.

It takes Stiles about two seconds to choose the right option for him to take – namely picking the worse of two evils, sliding his Taser out of his pocket and yanking Lydia over the line of mountain ash with him to stand by Kyle.

Stiles does a quick count of their side – Scott, the twins, Isaac. Four against seven. Shit. _Shit_.

Allison's outside, their back-up plan for Kyle escaping, and she won't know – even if Stiles texted her right now – it's still five against seven, and those odds aren't great.

Then again, Scott's an Alpha, and his three wolves are Betas; maybe against seven Omegas that'll be enough.

"I could fight," Kyle says.

"Yeah," Stiles mutters. "And risk leaving the box with me or Lydia?"

"You're too weak."

"Sometimes I forget exactly why I hate you," Stiles mutters, "and then you go and remind me all over again. Thanks for that."

The fight is chaos, and in the midst of it several of the lights are shattered; it's even worse trying to keep track of who's winning and who's losing in the small space, but from the sounds… Maybe they're losing. Stiles can't even see well enough to Tase someone safely; more than likely he'd Tase someone on their side. He'd probably have to lean out of the circle too to Tase anyone.

"We need more light," Lydia says, ducking her head from side to side, trying to keep track of the action. "And more space. I think it's the lack of space that's screwing this all up."

She moves as if to step out of the circle, and Stiles holds her back, gripping her probably too-tightly by the elbow. She struggles and he grips tighter.

"And you'd be ripped apart by the time you made it halfway," Stiles snits back.

"He's right," Kyle murmurs.

"Fuck you," Lydia hisses at him, heatedly.

"Wait, wait," Stiles says, "much as I enjoy other people baiting Kyle—I got it."

Lydia turns back to him, expression a mix between sourness and fear.

"Lydia, you know how you think most guys would like very much to make you scream?" Stiles asks.

Lydia's expression settles, and she turns panicked eyes to him. "I don't think this is the right situation to be thinking of pleasuring me sexually, Stilinski."

"I wasn't," Stiles protests. "At least—I wasn't thirty seconds ago but now you just broke me—" Lydia glares at him, but instead of acquiescing to her, he glares right back. "I mean the other kind. _Scream_."

"All the werewolves we know are in _here,_ " Lydia hisses. "Except for Jackson, and believe me, if my scream worked all the way to there, he'd be getting a damn earful of it. Regularly."

"But luring werewolves isn't all you can do," Stiles hisses. "Remember what happened in the alley?"

"My voice amplified to the right resonance to shatter the windows," Lydia says.

"And mirrors are—"

"Basically glass," Lydia breathes, and grins. "Might be best if you duck and cover."

"I can do that," Stiles agrees, and does as she says, stuffing his fingers into his ears just in time for Lydia to open her mouth wide, and release a nightmarish, blood-curdling scream that rings in Stiles' ears and resonates in his belly with its abrasive, echoing, _terrible_ sound.

Nothing happens for a second but the werewolves breaking apart from their fight and covering their ears. Then the nearest mirrors crack – and then it's like an invisible bull in a china store. Mirrors start smashing, crashing down on themselves, splintering into fragments of glass and light, scattering sharp debris across the sandy ground.

The wider space lets more light in from the bulbs illuminating the outer rings of the maze, and Stiles watches in horror as Peter grabs one of his own Omegas, the oldest one; Peter spears him through the chest, and in one deft swipe cuts his throat before slicing the forehead open in an A.

"The cut's actually unnecessary," Peter hisses, noticing Stiles' horrified attention and latching onto it. "But I'm a stickler for tradition, and I don't mind stating my intentions here."

Stiles is almost sick. Peter, of course it was freaking Peter, of course a little thing like a few days in a jail cell couldn't stop him being the King of Gigantic Jerkdom.

Killing the Omega seems to do something to Peter, something better than the adrenaline injection in the hospital; he seems to bulk up almost instantly, and his grin turns from smug to a little feral, and Stiles realizes with a sinking pang that even though the added light from Lydia's scream had turned the tide a little – this burst of power might be enough for Peter to _win_.

He glances around, bringing up his Taser, and Lydia's hand closes around his, steadying his aim.

"There," Lydia says, moving their hands to an Omega about to stab Isaac in the back, and Stiles activates it, smacking one of the Omegas fully in the chest; it takes him half down to the ground, away from Isaac, but it's not enough.

"You're gonna have to let me out," Kyle says, "I'll fight for you—"

"The instant we break the ash," Stiles says, "the instant he'll get the box—"

" _Down,_ " Erica yells, and Stiles turns to her, standing in amongst the melee, and he listens to her, because she's been right so far; he grabs Lydia and Kyle and drags them down into a crouch just in time to miss the giant shard of mirror that Peter hauls at their heads. Scott barrels into Peter's side half a second later, claws out and eyes burning red.

"None of this matters," Peter crows, rolling away from Scott and jumping up to his feet, claws spread out wide. "You're going to lose. You might as well get daddy dearest to pass me the box now, save some of the pain of your demise. You're outnumbered."

"We're _stronger,_ " Scott hisses, circling him, his feet crunching over the mirror shards.

"Not with the drugs in their system," Peter says. "It makes them desperate, the closest to feral a werewolf can risk before losing themselves. I mean, give them too much and bam, they're drooling idiots, but your beautiful sacrifice means I have a practically eternal supply of them."

Scott snarls, and swipes at Peter, who blocks him, and continues to smile, ducking backwards nimbly away from Scott's punches.

"Your pack isn't doing well," Peter crows. "Your banshee and emissary are sitting ducks. We're stronger than you, and there are more of us. Give up now and walk away while you still can."

"You're assuming they don't have any back-up," a _very_ familiar voice says.

Peter's expression is totally comedic.

Derek. It's _Derek._ Standing in the opening to the tent and smirking, chin tilted high, as he faces his uncle down with a cool stare.

Stiles even lets out a small sound of surprise and relief, because Peter's words were ringing too close to home. Isaac and the twins look wrecked, and the five Omegas still look fresh as a daisy, and Scott's panting. It was only a matter of time before Peter managed to turn the tide of battle.

Until now. Stiles' relief is almost palpable.

And it's not just an increase of numbers. Maybe that's what Scott's thinking, as his gaze slides over the numbers; he's got his math expression on, meaning he's recalculating the odds of having Derek on their side now. But Stiles' relief isn't logical. It's _visceral._ It's a certainty that slides down his spine, that takes hold in his toes, that turns the corner of his mouth upwards into an automatic smile.

Derek's here, so everything's going to be okay. Stiles just _knows_ it. He turns to Peter with renewed joy sizzling in his veins. There's something about the power of being able to help take Peter Hale down that's somewhat thrilling.

"Nephew," Peter says, his voice stiff and cold, the muscles in his face tightening.

"Hello, uncle," Derek says. He's not wolfed out, but his smile is wolfish, and terribly smug.

Mostly because he's not alone.

Stiles can't help the grin, and it's not even totally fuelled by the feeling that makes his palms tingle a little, because now Stiles thinks to look for it, Derek looks good. Really good. The webcam had done a disservice to what time away from Beacon Hills could do for Derek Hale.

Nope, mostly his grin is fuelled by how actually dumbfounded that Peter looks. Because there's no way in hell that Peter's anticipated Derek coming back…

Or the fact that Derek's willingly recruited Chris Argent's help, in time enough to get him from his patrol in town to the fairground.

Chris doesn't smile, but Stiles can almost see the joy in his eyes as he lifts his gun to point directly at Peter's chest.

"Just how attached are you to your uncle, Derek?" Chris asks, his eyes not leaving Peter's.

"He killed my sister," Derek says. "So… not at all?"

"Good answer," Chris says, and opens fire.

Stiles gets down to the ground automatically, and Lydia crouches down next to him, rubbing her throat – the screaming must take it out of her – and he tries to watch what's going on while staying in the mountain ash circle. Werewolf fights are always a blur, because it's not like a Hollywood fight scene, with everything slowed down so the best stunts can be seen; they fight with super speed and super strength, and the still-standing mirror frames unfortunately stop most of Chris' bullets from hitting the five Omegas and Peter as they flee.

Scott, Isaac and the twins give chase, but Stiles straightens with the oddest of feelings that it's not going to be enough.

Peter wouldn't risk a confrontation like this one – even one he's underestimated – without an escape route. And with a fair still full of people being evacuated… Yeah, escape's gonna be easy.

Scott and Isaac return a few moments later, while Stiles and Lydia are still picking themselves up; Chris and Derek obviously knew the same thing Stiles had figured out and hadn't even bothered going after Peter and his Omegas – instead the two of them corner Kyle McCall, who doesn't even falter – he just wordlessly hands over the box he was using as bait for Peter.

"Man," Allison says, stepping over the mountain ash line to stand by Stiles and Lydia, "this is kind of surreal."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, throat tightening a little on seeing Derek's broad shoulders, and hating the way he kind of wants to spread his hands over them, see how much of Derek's back he can cover. "Yeah, I guess your dad's not the sort to hold grudges."

"Derek doesn't seem to, either," Lydia says, her voice husky.

Derek turns at that, and looks a little startled for a moment, before shrugging. "Someone's been teaching me about where to really place the blame," he says, and he flickers a smile at Stiles before turning to the box again. Stiles ducks his head, feeling heat crawl into his cheeks.

Lydia and Allison giggle in unison, and Stiles shoots them a dirty look.

"He'll come back for it," Kyle says, nodding at the box. "He wants the power. The stupid Omegas following him are just fodder for his insanity."

Allison startles backwards a step, and Lydia and Stiles instantly tense on guard – but her eyes focus on a corner of smashed mirrors, and Stiles understands.

"What's she telling you to do?" Stiles asks, looking over at his own ghost – after telling him to duck, Erica hadn't left – except this time Stiles startles, because Erica's standing next to Boyd, her chin tilted. Boyd is standing there with a bloodshot grin, clawmarks prominent through his chest. This is the first time he's seen two of them next to each other, and with Derek in proximity, it's all kind of surreal. Stiles barely feels like he's standing there at all.

"She's telling us to run after Peter," Allison says, eyes scanning worriedly over what looks like empty space to them. "Guess I'm voting for a regroup and trying to get him tomorrow."

"Giving him more time to prepare," Stiles says, and then he purses his lips. "But then… we have that time, too. Tme to come up with at _least_ a hundred different painful ways of killing Peter Hale." He edges a look at Lydia, and she straightens, mouth folding into a weird expression as she contemplates it, and then curling into a satisfied smile as the idea settles into her spine.

"I like the sound of that," Lydia says.

As predicted, Scott and Isaac come back first.

"The twins are still-" Scott says, and gestures wildly at the outside, suggesting that the twins are still being their usual, feisty, unstoppable selves. "Do we need to worry that Peter could whammy them with the herbs too?"

"No," Kyle says, "your Betas should be fine. It's just untethered Omegas."

Derek falters at the phrasing, looking down at the ground for a moment, and Stiles hates it; he just reacts instinctively, stumbling out of the circle and hurrying over a few paces, before realizing what he's doing and awkwardly jamming his hands in his pockets.

Derek actually swallows before looking at him, and ugh, that's probably still that ridiculous guilt, woe, everything-is-my-fault reaction kicking in again.

"You're not an Omega," Stiles tells him, wagging a finger at him. He glares across at Scott.

"Dude, I already told you by text," Scott says, hurrying over and clamping a hand on Derek's shoulder. "You're totally pack."

"This is oddly touching," Kyle says.

"And you're not," Scott says, flatly, scowling at Kyle. "At least not mine."

And then Scott starts to ask questions about the box, and it's all stuff that Stiles has heard, so he just nods awkwardly and stiffly at Derek, and backs off, satisfied the point about Derek being pack has been sufficiently made.

"God, you're painful to watch sometimes," Lydia mutters.

"Shut up," Stiles whines back, rubbing his head. Erica and Boyd take a step closer to him, and he can't help the whine that comes out of his throat when he realizes that there is a third ghost there. A third ghost, and he can see her, and it's his mom. His _mom_.

She looks exactly like she did the day she died, face drawn and pale and eyes mostly dead. Her hair hangs limply down the side of her face, and this is so far from being his favorite image of her, the farthest it could be from being an image of her that he wants to remember at all.

"What are you waiting for?" Erica hisses. "You should go after Peter. _Fight_. You need to fight."

"Stiles?" Allison moves closer, her hand gently pressing against his elbow; it's an anchoring move and he's grateful for it. "You okay?"

"Hmm," Stiles says, noncommittally. "Just—" He waves his hand in the air. "Ghosts. Staring ghosts. Freaking me out."

"Ghosts?" Allison repeats, and Stiles thinks she's about lost her mind, when she clarifies, "Ghosts _plural_?"

"Uh," Stiles says, "yes?" He hurries on to clarify. "I haven't had one particular person stopping by—"

"Which Deaton says can happen," Allison says, but her voice is taut with worry when she continues, "but it still should be one. You should only be seeing one of them."

"What?" Stiles blinks, rapidly. "What—When did he say this?"

Allison blinks. "Last week sometime? When we—" Her face wrinkles. "When we took him some of the lodestones, and showed him the photos of you and—" She gestures at Derek; she might be working hard not to hold a grudge, but she's still having difficulty saying his name. "And… you weren't there."

"No," Stiles says, and he can _feel_ his dark heart starting to race, the off-beat thump in his chest as it starts to speed ahead of itself. "No, I- You've been doing that—Making plans without me—" He blinks rapidly in a row, because that feeling of not being there is more now, more focussed, more high-pitched, like a distant ringing in his ear. His headaches pounds in symphony with his heart.

Allison's trying to say more, but her words are disjointed, like she's speaking through water. "We – I guess we just assumed – talking's one of your talents—I'm sorry—"

"Stiles—" Scott's saying his name now, and Stiles stumbles back a little, disorientated. The shattered mirror fragments on the ground stare at him mockingly, and Boyd's staring too, next to his mom, and Erica's laughing suddenly.

"What are they telling you?" Allison asks, low and urgent.

"Don't even bother asking," Kyle says, "you never get a straight answer from a Stilinski, and you never get one from an emissary—Why even try?"

"I—" Stiles blurts, and someone grabs his arm, pulling him closer, and it's like he can breathe again; the scent of leather fills his nose, and he latches onto it, as something real, and he struggles to breathe properly and for once succeeds before the panic lodges in fully. "I'm okay," he says, nodding firmly, "sorry, just had a weird thing—" And that's when he looks up, to see it's not Scott like he'd semi-automatically assumed, but it's Derek.

Which, of course it is.

"Dude, I'm fine," Stiles says, and tries to step backward; Derek's eyes are intense and his eyebrows are furrowed with obvious worry. Which is never one of Stiles' favorite moments in life; when super powered _werewolves_ worry, Stiles thinks it gives him free rein to worry _more_.

"You're not fine," Derek says, and steps forward to match Stiles' step back, and then he tugs Stiles in closer.

"Nurgh," Stiles burbles coherently. "Y'know, I know we ascertained that you're somewhere in the trunk of the fault tree, and it isn't your fault Justin Bieber used you, but I've been teased an awful lot for how she used her manipulative ways, and I gotta tell you, buster, this isn't helping—"

"Stiles," Derek says impatiently, "shut up."

"It's like you don't know me at all," Stiles whines automatically.

"Could none of you even _smell_ that?" Derek says, and he leans right in, pressing his nose against Stiles' forehead, and yep, there goes the ship of not-being-teased-about-Derek, sailing off into the sunset.

The warmth of Derek's nose against Stiles' skin is really—not something Stiles had anticipated. A warm feeling curls its way down his body. Ugh, his body is the _worst_. It hasn't got the message that crushing on Derek Hale is _not the goddamned plan._

"Right here," Derek says, pushing up Stiles' hair, and pointing at the line of the cut that Stiles got from crashing his Jeep the night of the Lunar Eclipse. "Scott?"

"I didn't—" Scott starts, moving in closer, "Mostly he's been smelling of mountain ash, I—"

"What the hell's going on?" Stiles demands.

"Stiles, listen to me," Derek says, and he's speaking slowly, firmly, and that's odd – Stiles can hear just fine. Except then he plays back what he's just said in his own head, and maybe he slurred it a little? Maybe? "I need to know. When did you last hit your head?"

"Uh," Stiles says, "Erica hit me with a car part a few months ago. And I hit my head when I crashed my Jeep a couple of weeks ago? It was when we were looking for the root cellar, there was a mist- a lot of mist- and a tree. I mostly blame the tree, actually. Came right out at me. A tree on the fault tree, ha."

"And when you went to the hospital afterwards," Derek says. "What did the CT scan show?"

"It didn't show anything," Stiles says. "Because I didn't have a CT scan until yesterday."

Derek frowns. "But you told them what happened. And your symptoms. And they didn't give you a scan?"

Stiles winces. "I didn't, uh—Yesterday was the first time I went to the hospital?"

Derek's instant bitch face would be hilarious, if Stiles could focus on it properly. "I shouldn't have just left, I knew I shouldn't have just—I let Peter get under my skin and—" Derek huffs out a breath, and looks over his shoulder, turning awkwardly – Stiles can't figure out why until he realizes Derek's hands are still on him. Oh. That's kind of nice.

"We need to get out of here," Derek says, presumably to Scott. "If he's slurring his words, it's getting bad—"

"We don't know what else is out there," Scott says. "Can we pain drain him while we—"

Derek levels a glare. "You don't pain drain a trauma victim; it might leave something undiagnosed." Then he takes a breath, and more calmly says, "There'll be a medical station on site. Hopefully it hasn't been evacuated yet."

"I don't need a medical station," Stiles protests, "I'm not a trauma victim!! I mean, generally speaking this whole werewolf business is pretty traumatic."

The others move around him, busily suggesting things to each other in a cloud of what seems like just a cacophony to Stiles. Behind them, the ghosts stare, and stare, and Stiles stares back, because if he can only see one ghost – which one is the real one? This is all entirely ridiculous. Everyone is being entirely ridiculous.

Stiles backs up a pace, trying to get away from Derek – man, that teasing is going to suck balls – and he wobbles weirdly. Probably just adrenaline, he reasons, just for a second, and then sighs.

Just his luck. Weak human, getting taken out by a freaking tree. It's embarrassing. It's—

Scott's close now, pushing up close to Derek, not looking very happy. Scott's the _best._ Scott's – Scott looks angry. Stiles squints at his best friend, and starts to think something might be wrong.

"This is ridiculous," Derek snaps at Scott, "he's had, what, two weeks as an emissary and you're already overlooking him? I'd kinda hoped you'd freaking learn from my mistakes so you didn't have to make them. You might recall them. I made a lot. Do you need a list?"

"What crawled up your butt and died?" Scott asks, tersely looking between Derek, Kyle who seems to be smirking at how badly everything is going, and empty space – so maybe Harold's joined the melee too. Stiles can't follow much of it at all, and that's-

That's probably what should have keyed him into everything being terribly wrong.

"I just- thought you'd learn. But I guess no one learns the lessons of history," Derek says.

"Actually, I'm failing history," Isaac offers. He blanches at the sudden quiet while everyone stares at him, appalled. He pulls a round packet of mints out of his pocket. "Icebreaker?"

Derek lets out an annoyed huff and mutters something about terrible homecoming decisions. Another comforting weight touches Stiles' body, both sides – Lydia and Allison moving in to flank him – and it's nice. He feels safe, and protected, and a little bit of an idiot, because everything's been going downhill for a while – losing his ability to be the one to make the plans, the hyper vigilance that keeps him constantly on edge – but he should have noticed that the last two weeks' downhill slope was too far, too fast.

He should have noticed, and Stiles wants to blame the darkness circling his heart, but a little voice tells him the truth with startling clarity considering how fuzzy his head feels – if his self esteem had been better, he might have made more of an effort to investigate it. But something deep inside him had told him he deserved to be slower, to be messed up. Something had told him he deserved this, so it must be okay. It must be normal. It must be just him.

Stiles really needed to examine his own concept of the fault tree in more detail, because apparently he's firmly rooted himself in amongst the villains.

There's a high pitched sound, and Stiles thinks for a second that the shit has completely hit the fan, but Lydia goes, "Ah, there it is" in a satisfied tone that has everyone looking at her in surprise. "I called an ambulance, dumbasses." Oh. The sound is a siren. Just _how_ out of it is Stiles right now? He rubs at his forehead. "It's not our fault the mirror maze collapsed and showed us that our friend needs medical attention."

"Looking for a supernatural answer to a natural problem," Allison says, as if quoting someone.

"Wait," Stiles says, " _ambulance,_ I am totally—There's no need—"

 _Everyone_ glares at him then in unison, which is not the greatest of feelings.

"But there's so much here that needs to be—" Stiles says, gesturing at the mountain of a mess in front of them; the shattered mirrors, the carved box, the herbs, _serial killer Peter_. Derek.

The ghost of his mom. "You deserve this," she says. Stiles doesn't even realize he has his hands clamped over his ears until someone's tugging them down, maybe a paramedic – right at this point he doesn't know. He just lets himself be led out of the tent, ignoring the hiss of the paramedics at all the mirror shards. He registers them dabbing at his face – apparently he's been hit by some of the mirror debris at some point, but he hadn't noticed – and he dimly registers Derek following him into the ambulance, which _okay,_ weird but maybe Stiles needs a werewolf bodyguard, or something.

His brain gets more alert on the drive to the hospital, as the paramedic keeps asking him questions, and Stiles is forced into a wheelchair at the other side, and Stiles' dad is in the hospital reception, of _course_ he is.

His face is pale, and Stiles hates it, he hates that he's done this to his dad—

"Boys," Melissa says, hurrying up to the paramedics. "A word—"

She pulls them off to one side, showing them a clipboard; Stiles tries to focus in on what they're saying but his vision's a little blurry and that's distracting. Man, he's going to need another optometrist appointment. Dr. Mietek'll laugh at how wrong he was about Stiles needing glasses for sure—

"It's nothing," Stiles says, as soon as his dad's in hearing, "I promise, it's not as bad as it looks—"

"When did he start slurring?" Dad asks.

"About thirty minutes ago," Derek says softly, then sotto voce, "I can smell blood on his brain—"

"Thank you for finding him," Dad says, in a strained voice, then to Stiles: "Why didn't you answer your phone?"

Stiles stares at his dad. "Why—" He fumbles for his phone. Three missed calls. It's on silent. He doesn't remember doing that.

"I need to cancel the squads looking for you," Dad says. "Your results came back."

"And?" Stiles says.

"Okay," Melissa says, hurrying up to Stiles, the paramedics in tow. "Take him. He's booked for the OR—"

"The OR?" Stiles' voice goes high, _too_ high; a couple of emergency patients sitting in the chair give him a startled look. "An _operation_? But I—I just have a _headache,_ it's not—"

Dad looks down at him with a pained expression. "I'm sorry, kiddo. You're not as well as we'd hoped."

Stiles opens his mouth.

"You're gonna be okay," Derek tells him, and Stiles twists his head back as a couple of nurses wheel him off; Dad, Derek and Melissa grow smaller and smaller as he's taken away.

"Look on the bright side," Victoria tells him, walking backwards ahead of him. "You might die tonight and not have to face dying tomorrow."

"Or maybe you'll live," Erica says, sitting on a gurney on the right side of the hallway, her hair a golden flare blurring as Stiles is wheeled past her, "and have to _actually_ face your ghost."

"Maybe you'll live and get the chance to kill someone else," Kate says, sitting on the edge of a nurse's desk.

"Did you say something, Mr. Stilinski?" one of the nurses walking alongside him asks.

Stiles looks up at him wordlessly.

For the first time in his life, he doesn't even know what to say.


	10. Chapter 10

 

**Chapter Ten**

_“His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to remain — why he did not instantly disappear.”_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

 

"Oh, dude," Scott breathes, "your hair."

Stiles squints at his best bud, because he's got a giant tube attached to his head, and it's the haircut that Scott notices?

"Yeah," Stiles says, ruefully. "Back to the buzzcut, bro. And after I spent all summer growing it out, too."

"Hair grows back," Scott says, sitting gingerly into the seat next to the bed. The unspoken implication is clear; hair grows back, but best friends are not so easy to replace. "You're more awake than I expected."

"Yeah, well," Stiles says, "They didn't put me under during the operation."

"No way," Scott breathes, and hangs on Stiles' every word, which is kinda nice. And different for their recent pace. So maybe Stiles wallows a little in the attention as he describes the procedure, starting with the injections for local anaesthesia. Scott winces on his behalf.

"Then they made a _massive_ incision in my scalp, and used a drill—"

"A drill," Scott repeats.

"They called it a brace, but it was totally just a drill," Stiles says. He has to get Melissa's help to describe the next stage – they made an 8mm opening in his skull, then another incision, and put a catheter in. They pushed it into contact with the blood clot, between two layers of his skull, and then made another incision in the back of his head to thread the tube under the skin so it exits at the rear of his head.

"So basically gravity's doing the rest of the work," Stiles says, gesturing. "I've got maybe a week here, and then another few days for the stitches, and bam. Instant best friend back in action. Not as fast as werewolf healing mojo, but not too shabby."

"Subdural haemotoma," his dad says, shaking his head. "Couldn't you have picked something a little less melodramatic?"

Stiles makes an incoherent, indignant sound at his dad. On the plus side, for the first time in weeks, no part of Stiles hurts apart from his dignity and pride. On the down side, that's probably the drugs, and the ghosts will probably now encourage him into a life of drug addiction and prostitution to pay for it all.

Uh, or ghost. Stiles' thoughts are blurry, and will be for a while.

"Some people get to go home after this," Stiles says, grumpily.

"Yeah, well _some_ people are less at risk of trying to do strenuous activity when they should be _resting,_ " Dad says, just as grumpily.

Stiles pulls a face. The man has a point, alas.

"The doc say the hallucinations will continue for a couple of weeks, kiddo," his dad says, when Stiles squints over his dad's shoulder; he has to be thinking Stiles is hallucinating now, which, yeah, it's possibly likely, because Derek's standing behind his dad with a worried expression.

"Get some sleep, we'll brief you when you wake up," his dad tells him. It sounds like a splendid idea.

#

Stiles wakes up several times – usually to someone different in his room, and once it was a guilty looking Kyle McCall which made Stiles flail and smack his panic button with his fist – the damn werewolf jumped out of the window, and the nurse told him he might have imagined the man jumping from his fifth floor window _, it happens all the time, dear, don't worry about it_. Stiles is pretty sure he didn't imagine that part; mostly because he can't shake the feeling of general disappointment from the room afterwards, and that's always what Kyle McCall makes him feel.

When he wakes properly, sometime in the morning of the next day after his blood drain tube has been removed, it's to such a surreal scene that Stiles thinks he's hallucinating again – Derek and Allison are playing Battleships on a couple of scraps of paper.

There's a lot of eyebrow action going on, and a lot of poker expressions, and Allison's definitely winning – Derek's left hand is curled under his chair, claws poking through, and Allison's satisfied grin is restrained but peeking through, and she tosses her hair over one shoulder when she sinks his submarine.

"A8," Stiles croaks, from the bed, because he can just about see Allison's paper from here.

"A8," Derek says, triumphantly, and Stiles bursts out laughing.

" _Miss_ ," Allison says, and quickly adds, "D4."

"You sank my battleship," Derek says, in a small voice, and Allison snatches up his piece of paper like it's a flag.

"I told you I could wipe the floor with you," Allison says. "Werewolf superhearing for the _lose._ " She turns to smile at Stiles. "We sent your dad for coffee. I'll go fetch him. Let you two have some time alone." She winks at Stiles, grabs a small purse from Stiles' side table and leaves the room.

"Uh," Stiles says.

"Yeah, you said the teasing was bad," Derek says, rubbing at his face sleepily; he's not clean-shaven now, but Stiles likes the stubble. It suits him better. "I should have been more sympathetic while I had the chance."

"Shoulda woulda coulda," Stiles says, and ineffectually tries to push himself up the bed; he sighs. "Getting your head cut open kinda takes it out of a guy," he whines, leaning back and wincing as a sharp lance of pain makes it through the heavy drugs.

"The doctor'll be in to check up on you soon," Derek says, and then before Stiles can ask, he gives Stiles as brief a summary as he can of what he's heard.

Apparently there's a whole bunch of stuff coming, but it's not as bad as it could be. He might be out in a couple of days. Stiles thinks he's most looking forward to the angiogram after two weeks to check it's all worked. It's going to be inserted into his _groin._ Yeah, _awesome_. And wow, his brain's being wickedly sarcastic. Maybe he's going to be okay after all.

The stitches will be removed in seven days, but for now, they want Stiles to stay under observation.

"But what about the—"

Derek glares, and sighs. "There's a patrol in place. Scott's working with his father. Guy's a dick, but—it's for the best right now."

"The best sucks," Stiles whines, feeling sorry for himself.

Derek shoots him an odd look, a hint of red high on both of his cheeks. "I guess so," he says, in a curious tone which makes something bubble oddly in Stiles' stomach. Probably the lack of food, but maybe it's something else.

Maybe it's the concept of Derek thinking Stiles might… uh… _suck_. Which means Derek might be thinking right now that Stiles is the best.

Hmm, hmmm. Well, Stiles is probably lucky he's so medicated that he can't humiliate himself further by adding a boner to the whole awkward situation. Derek pulls a face and quickly leaves the room without saying goodbye, which is weird, and Stiles is both hurt and confused until his dad comes in with the doctor in tow, and the doctor asks a whole raft of questions, before asking if Stiles has any questions of his own.

"Does the angiogram really have to be inserted—" Stiles gestures at his crotch.

"We can… put it in your arm," the doctor says.

"Nah, groin's okay," Stiles says, because, yeah, oppositional defiance disorder. "It's more melodramatic."

"Uh," the doctor says, clearly unused to such flippancy. Or coherency. Stiles can believe that; his roommates Gertha is a docile _idiot._

"Don't worry," Dad says, clapping the doctor on the shoulder. "You won't get used to him." Dad glares at Stiles. "He won't be giving us more reasons to be in hospital any time soon."

"Grargh," Stiles says, eloquently.

The doctor leaves, and Dad settles down into the chair.

Stiles flickers a guilty look in his direction. "Shouldn't you be at work?"

Dad gives him a stern glare. "My son's in hospital. I've been ignoring you enough with my million double shifts, they can deal without me for a couple of days." He pulls a wry face. "Especially considering the FBI are assisting with our recent murder cases."

"Kyle McCall is a dick," Stiles says.

"Agreed," Dad says. "Although if anyone asks, I reprimanded you for using foul language."

"Roger that."

"Oh, kiddo," Dad sighs. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Buy me a _present,_ " Stiles says. "It turns out that I got injured in the line of duty! Rescuing our very own kidnapped sheriff from a mysterious cave-in in the woods!"

"And if my son had pulled over when the _fog_ got bad—" Dad prompts.

"You all might have died in the root cellar," Stiles points out, stubbornly. "If I hadn't got there just at the last second…"

"I think what you said earlier covers it."

Stiles squints, and thinks about it. "Rargh?"

Dad nods solemnly. "You should rest."

Stiles gives him a look. "I've been resting for _ages_ already."

"Hours," Dad says. "But I'll let that pass. Scott says hi, by the way."

"Yeah?"

"He's been by three times," Dad says. "But not as much as someone else…"

Dad points at his eyebrows. Stiles hates that his cheeks burn automatically. "I should have known before the photo thing, I guess. I mean, I always knew you had a thing for the candystripers here. God, the way you used to follow them around when your mom was being seen by the nurses—"

His dad chokes up a little; even though they're trying to mention her more, it's always going to be hard, still a conversation that will include more pauses and hesitations than any other.

"It's okay," Stiles says. "I didn't notice my apparent, uh, Hale thing." He squirms, and it's nothing to do with the things stuck to his arms or the drugs still coursing through his system. "And I think it's a leap to go from me heroworshipping Derek's sister to—"

Dad leans back in his chair, blinking oddly."So you're telling me that you forgot Derek was a candystriper too?"

Stiles blinks, a few times, because really, that's the sort of thing he would remember, Derek in one of those pink sets of scrubs, that's much too delightful an image. The only way he might have missed something like that is if—

"He was around when she was really sick," Stiles says, and swallows hard, because yeah; at the latter stages of her illness, when his mom was in the room, his entire focus was on her and her alone. He'd noticed Laura looking after mom in the beginning, but that was back when his mom was just being diagnosed, not when she was in too much pain. Now he thinks, and thinks hard, he can vaguely remember a teenage boy passing by him on the way out, murmuring something about how his mom was a fighter, how she was such a lovely woman. How Stiles was being so brave.

"Yeah," Derek says, from the doorway. Stiles startles – Derek's carrying a cardboard coffee holder, and he passes one wordlessly to Stiles' dad. "Mom used to make all of us do at least a year here. Said it was part of our responsibility to the community that protected us."

Derek looks around the room, as if remembering his younger self there at work; that's always the worst part of being in Beacon Hills, Stiles thinks. There's always been ghosts here, and not just crazy Nemeton-fuelled ones – the ghosts of their memories, of their painful pasts in this small town.

"I don't really remember you either," Derek tags on, looking at Stiles with a blank sort of look, like he's composing himself intently to keep him from showing any sort of emotion on his face, lest he show too much. "I was only here to notice those sick, those in pain." He doesn't sit down, but he leans against the wall, and his gaze looks unfocussed. "You were brave. That's what I remembered. I could tell you were going to be okay, so I didn't bother. You didn't need me."

"Not then," Stiles says, and Derek looks at him, his carefully schooled expression flashing into something genuinely shocked, and his mouth going a little slack. Not enough for a stranger to notice, but Stiles has been around Derek Hale enough to be able to pick up on the nuances, on the minute things that make the werewolf's iron control crack and show some of the real person beneath his stoic facade.

Derek knows what Stiles is really saying. Stiles didn't need him. Not _then_. But maybe he needs Derek _now._

"Scott wanted an update," Derek says, and his gaze is turned almost hilariously away from Dad's direction; Dad's noticed it too, and he's started to smirk, an expression which tells Stiles pretty firmly that both of them are in for quite a bit of teasing from Beacon County's sheriff. "I'm gonna-" Derek says, vaguely, gesturing at the door and disappearing out.

"You know," Dad says, looking out the doorway, like he can still see the smoke lines from Derek's hasty retreat, "Allison was telling me a little bit about the book you stole from Jennifer's apartment that she's translating."

"I deny everything," Stiles tries, squinting hazily at his dad. He swallows a flinch when he sees Victoria Argent standing behind him. Well, they said the hallucinations might continue, that it was normal. Or it could be his ghost. There's no point making a song-and-dance until Stiles knows for sure.

Man, he hopes Victoria's just his imagination, though.

"Denial," Victoria croons. "Sounds about right for a coward."

It kinda sounds like his subconscious, if he's being uncomfortably honest with himself.

"Sounds like he didn't have a lot of control over what he was doing with her," his dad says, slow and somewhat awkwardly.

"Oh," Stiles says; not oh, that's entirely new information, but oh, ow, sucker punch to the chest. He feels like he can't breathe for a second, and he tries to swallow, and it hurts. Probably from the tubes, scraping his throat. He shakes his head as much as he's able to, and stares into space. "Dad. That's his whole romantic history. People using him. I don't—" He lets his eyes close. They kind of want to. He wants to sleep for a _year_. "I don't want to be one of those."

"You will," Victoria Argent says. "You're just like your mother. _Weak_."

He can hear his dad's broken exhale, like wind travelling through shattered glass, but then he feels a warmth and a weight on his shoulder – his dad's hand.

It's nice to have this familiar touch, this warm connection, in a place that they both hate being. Hospitals are never going to be somewhere either of them can ever enter without the worry of never coming out again clamping down on their fears.

"Kiddo," his dad breathes, and Stiles opens his eyes to look at his dad. "Claudia always knew you were a strong kid. And what she asked—what she _manipulated_ you into doing—" His dad sighs, and uses his spare hand to rub the bridge of his nose. "I guess I don't even have to give you the lecture about how to tread softly around someone who—"

"Wait, wait," Stiles says, "are you giving me dating advice? For potentially dating Derek Hale? I'm not—"

Dad gives him the kind of look that he uses on his suspects. The _you are kidding no one_ expression. "You'll be interacting with him no matter what your personal relationship with him ends up being," Dad says, somewhat sternly. "Heaven knows I won't be able to keep you away from them."

"Them?" Stiles says.

Dad gestures eloquently. Oh, well, he was never going to be able to say _werewolves_ as easily as Stiles can.

"If it was just a puppy crush on Hale, I would have tried," Dad says. "But with Scott being involved… That's where I've got no chance in hell of extracting you from the whole werewolf deal."

"Dad," Stiles says, "you said werewolf without flinching! I'm so proud of you!"

Dad huffs, gruffly. "Least that makes one of us?"

Stiles feels his face fall with disappointment before he even feels a pang of it. Well, it's not like he's a model son…

"Aw, hell," Dad says. "I'm always proud of you. Always." He squints sideways at Stiles. "I'd be _happier_ with you if you got bashed up less."

"Yeah, okay," Stiles says, embarrassed.

"And stalked less," Dad says, "and don't think you won't be going to a support group after this latest malarkey dials down a notch."

"Aw, dad—" Stiles starts.

"Don't aw dad me," Dad says. "I've been—It's my fault you didn't go to one six years ago. I thought your—"

"The ADHD counsellor," Stiles fills in for him.

"Yeah," Dad says. "But it was irresponsible. I failed you—"

Stiles squeaks. "No—"

"I failed you," Dad says, firmly, locking his gaze on Stiles'. "Just like I failed you by not—By thinking restricting information would keep you from trying to get it another way. You'll be going to a group. No questions. For Jennifer stalking you, and for what your mom—"

"Okay," Stiles says, quickly. "Okay."

"And Hale will be going to a group too. And finding gainful employment in town. And finishing his history degree, if I have anything to say about the matter."

"History?" Stiles blinks. "Huh, didn't see that one coming."

"You mean considering how it seems like he's fond of repeating it?" Dad asks, wryly.

"Maybe we can find a group than you can come to too," Stiles says.

"I—" Dad starts.

"Mom wouldn't have wanted us to grieve for her so long," Stiles says, quietly, thinking a little of the fault tree. For so long, he's thought he deserved to be near the roots of it, closer to hell. But maybe he should be up in the leaves, waiting for the light to come through the gaps. His chest feels a little tight. Maybe he can convince Derek to join him up there.

He's only letting his thoughts go off on a tangent because he's frightened of his dad's response to that quiet statement.

Even a month ago, it would have made his dad tense up, but now they need—

They _deserve_ to heal.

"Yeah," his dad says softly, and Stiles' chest bursts with an unfamiliar feeling. Happiness. Happiness, that counteracts the darkness like the brightest shield. "Yeah."

#

Of course Stiles had to persuade his dad to go back to work, and the others to patrol the area, because that's a smart idea, and the right thing to do.

It doesn't stop Stiles from being bored as hell. It's not like this place is bringing him a raft of cheerful memories, either. The whole place stinks of death and decay and hopelessness. It's why Stiles does the majority of the cleaning at home – his dad tried to hire a cleaning service once, and the smell of bleach made them both snappy and argumentative for weeks. If Stiles does it, he gets a bump in his allowance that makes buying gas less of a constant math struggle, and the place smells less like liquid death.

And the _white._ The white walls _everywhere._ This is the place where stereotypical ghosts could come and play and no one would notice. This place is endless hallways and endless chunks of interrupted time, sewn together with that terrible, death bleach smell.

Stiles has been in the hospital now for two days, two freaking days. Please, he only had a tiny hole drilled in his skull, in the world of werewolves and kanimas it's not a big deal. (Yeah, trying to foster a new more-open relationship with his dad hasn't quite killed the denial.)

The thing is, Stiles feels fine, which is apparently completely normal for his condition. It's so frustrating. Sure, there's an ache in his head, but it's more localized at where it was cut open; most of his other complaints are more hospital-caused. He's a little stiff and sore from lying in bed, he's not sleeping well because the nurse rotations wake him up, the medication is affecting his Adderall so he's itchy and distracted as anything, and his roommate Gertha is the kind who like to start throwing fits at random times of the day before going back to being an uninteresting vegetable who keeps the TV tuned to all the worst channels.

He's feeling so much better, but apart from a trips to the toilet, they won't let him go anywhere or do anything. Stiles is going more mad than when he was hallucinating a handful of ghosts a day.

The ghosts are still there, of course, so Stiles doesn't know which one is _his_ , but it's just a matter of time now. And one thing that Stiles doesn't do well with a lot of, with nothing to do in it, is time.

Lydia, because she's a goddess, brings him his laptop for the third day, and that's okay apart from the whole no-internet thing; he ends up voluntarily sorting out his filing system and tagging his pictures, just for something to do, and then when Danny makes a perfunctory visit (all the lacrosse team grudgingly turn up) he generously allows him to tether his laptop to his cellphone for half an hour, Stiles voluntarily downloads all his homework. He might as well fully commit to being through hell as long as he's passing on through.

Even that only takes him through another half a day. Which is so frustrating. Stiles flickers through the photos Jennifer took of him for the millionth time, which turns out to be the mistake for his bed rest, because there are three photos of him in the hospital – and it fixes in the back of his head that maybe, just maybe… one of the lodestones hasn't been picked up yet.

He's scoped out the rotation of the nurses, and he knows the layout of Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital too well already; he waits for the mid-afternoon shift change to make his move, and slips out of his bed when Gertha's half asleep and drooling over something Honey Boo Boo is doing on the TV screen.

And the thing is, Stiles' expedition would have nearly gone without a hitch – there's no lodestone in the waiting room, but there is embedded in the wall by the vending machines – he's just pocketing the lodestones and preparing to sneak back to the ward, semi-congratulating himself in his head for a job well done –

–and claws close around the back of his neck.

For a second, Stiles' only clear thought is a plaintive "FML", and then the claws retract, and Derek huffs unhappily in his ear.

"What do you think you're doing?" Derek hisses.

"Just going for a walk," Stiles says. Derek glares, and starts shepherding him back to the ward by the scruff of his neck, not even going the ninja-way which means he would escape the sad judging glare of the nurses he's skipped out on. "Hey, hey, you don't have to manhandle me," Stiles whines, but all that gets him is a small press of a hand between the shoulder blades. "Fine, I'm going. I'm going."

Derek doesn't respond, just keeps his hand firmly on Stiles' back as he forces him to return to his hospital room. Ugh. Stiles totally had plans to sneak into the nurse's room: he can't sleep in his room, but maybe he could have crawled under the tables and had a nap, just like he used to do when he was nine and waiting for (read: perving on) the candystripers.

Derek's hand is warm and distracting through the thin material of Stiles' cotton gowns. He maybe has to sort of think very firmly about dead bodies to not get an unfortunate response to the strong fingers stretched across the muscles of his back.

"You don't have to do this, y'know," Stiles mutters, as Derek pushes him into the room, and glares until Stiles climbs back into the bed and under the covers.

When he glances up, Derek's eyebrows are slanted, more in confusion than anger.

"You know," Stiles gestures ineloquently at himself, and the whole hospital. He's still too fractious for exactness. "Staying around. You don't—It was just a car crash. No supernatural fuckery whatsoever—"

"Jen—That fog was not natural," Derek grinds out, in a small voice. "But that's not—"

"What?" Stiles says, rolling his eyes and looking away from Derek. On the TV in the corner, someone runs into a door, and Stiles frowns; he must not be well if slapstick isn't making him smile. "You really going to tell me it's not guilt making you stop by every day? Because I gotta tell you, the psychopath who magicked you into a relationship was kind of a bitch?" Stiles is… fractious is the word he kind of thinks it is, but there's anger under the surface, and most of it—most of it is to Jennifer Blake, Julia Baccari, whatever the hell her name is. "She's down in the roots of the fault tree with Deucalion, you can count on that."

"You and that—" Derek bursts out, a hot knot of anger slipping free of the careful control he's been trying to practise. "I'm not going to lie and say I don't feel at all responsible," Derek grits out, in a quieter tone, but the hiss of the fricatives betray the amount of effort it's taking him to stay sounding calm. "But if you think I'm here at your side just because of some feeling of responsibility…"

Stiles looks up at Derek then, startled by Derek's tone; the werewolf's face is just as intense, his eyes locked on Stiles' now they're turned in his direction.

"If you think that's all it is," Derek says, his face twisted into a weird grimace, "then you're an idiot."

Stiles' heart thumps in his chest, and he knows Derek can hear it; his mouth is dry, and for some reason Stiles doesn't want to look too closely at, his eyes spike hot for a moment. Like he's going to cry. He forces a sniff, to try and stop himself, and it works. "Okay," Stiles finds himself saying, because goodness knows his brain isn't working, beyond wanting to wipe that tense expression from Derek's face. "Okay."

Derek nods, and maybe he relaxes; he sinks into the chair next to Stiles' bed, which is a little surprising. If Stiles isn't mistaken, there was an emotional outburst just then, and in his experience, when someone as repressed as Derek shows even for a second that they have a heart, it tends to be followed up by them either being a dick, or leaving melodramatically.

Well, Derek can probably still be a dick. Stiles swallows a few times, ignoring the pain of his dry throat, and side-eyes Derek.

"Visiting hours aren't until five," Stiles says.

"Eh," Derek says, eloquently, and scratches idly at the back of his neck. He folds up his mouth a little, like he's looking for something to say, but uncertain how to phrase it.

"I appreciate the company, though," Stiles says, trying to be reassuring.

"I, uh," Derek says, and can't quite look Stiles in the eyes when he says, "Me too."

"You? Lonely?" Stiles huffs. "I thought you lived on that loner, brooding stuff. I kind of have you pegged for a dark romantic, crying into a poetry book by candlelight…"

Derek snorts. "Yeah, thanks for that imagery. Ten out of ten for imagination."

"And from what dad says, it sounds more like you'd be poring over a history textbook," Stiles says, and wrinkles his nose, both because history is only his favorite subject occasionally, and because his dad had known this fact about Derek before he did.

"I guess," Derek says, shrugging. "Laura used to say that it was my history obsession that made me so rubbish about living in the now. Because my head would be back five centuries ago, I'd forget to look around and see what was happening in the twenty-first century."

"Makes sense," Stiles says. "Your technology aversion."

"I don't have an aversion—" Derek defends, automatically, and then he huffs a small, disbelieving laugh. "I just had a week with Cora, and—I can't believe the sibling bickering comes back so fast."

"Yeah, well, it's not like you ever thought you'd get a chance to use it again," Stiles says, keenly aware that they've skirted past pain-free conversation subjects and back into dangerous territory. "It's—how is Cora?"

Derek shrugs, his shoulders stiff. "She came here looking for something that didn't exist," he says, slowly. His eyes fix on the television, but he's clearly not watching; there's an episode of one of the Kardashian shows on now, and there's no way Stiles can reconcile this day with reality if that's the sort of TV that Derek's interested in. "And now we're going to work on building something that can exist, and it's going to take time. She's safe where she is, and happy, and we're going to talk. The problem is… she was hoping the last seven years hadn't happened. And they're a big part of who I am now." Derek takes an uneven breath, and glances at Stiles, an unreadable expression. "Beacon Hills is part of who I am now. And Cora's just not ready for that, yet."

"Time," Stiles says. "It's a bitch."

Derek huffs out another laugh, this one a little louder, loud enough for Stiles to hear the notes of pain in it. "Yeah. But the space will be good, I think. We had the sibling thing down pat… but we need to learn how to be friends." He shrugs, the movement still colored with tension. "I'm hopeful. Which, for me, is—"

"Epic," Stiles says, unable to help the small smile he throws in Derek's direction.

A small smile Derek mirrors. Stiles is caught by the expression, and his skin tingles with it, because freaking hell, whenever Derek smiles it's—

It's like the sun coming out.

Wow. Stiles' brain is the worst. It's the absolute, cheesiest worst, and Stiles is going to be a coward once more and blame it on the medication. And he's also never, ever going to say that out loud.

"I hope they let me stay," Derek says, head tilting; Stiles glances at the clock. Ah, yes, drug rotations are now—Derek must be able to hear the trolley approaching. "It's—Weirdly lonely at the hotel considering how full it is."

Stiles' brain gets noticeably stuck for a moment at the concept of Derek in a hotel room, even though he's seen it for himself on webcam. Maybe it's because he knows the Beacon Hills hotels. No human should have to stay there. Then again, Derek's not entirely human. Especially what with his rare and frequent smiles replicating a brilliant sunrise and all that.

Stiles remembers how it feels to get home to an increasingly empty house. How even the ghosts made it feel emptier. "Yeah," Stiles says, "I guess I can see that."

"Plus I know when I get there, there'll be no message from you," Derek says, unevenly. When Stiles' eyes fly back to his, Derek's still steadfastly staring at the TV.

"Yeah," Stiles says, and Derek has to hear the rate his heart is going at, and it should be embarrassing, it really should. But it's not. It feels—Hopeful. Hopeful was the right word. "Yeah, I miss that too."

Derek doesn't look at him, doesn't smile or nod, doesn't say something to acknowledge the response, but the tension in his muscles relax and he sinks a little further into the hospital chair, and the warmth that's been blossoming in Stiles' chest widens a little more. Oh, this crush is going to become a doozy if Stiles isn't careful.

But since when has Stiles ever been careful?

The nurses don't even blink at Derek sitting in the chair: they probably saw him herding Stiles back to bed after his mis-adventure. Stiles has found that nurses are very loyal to people they know are on their side. They probably see Derek as a staunch ally in their war against the stupid patients and their stupid attempts to derail recovery.

"So," Stiles says, when the nurses have moved on, "wanna talk business? Because if you talk about your feelings any more I'm gonna think you've been replaced by a shapeshifter, or a pod person, or a—" Stiles frowns. "Stepford wife?"

"Nice," Derek says, eyebrows quirking again judgmentally. "I go through a painful catharsis with my sister post-Darach to be more open with my emotions, to engage with them instead of trying to punch them in the face, and you want to block off my emotional fountain in its _infancy_ —"

It takes Stiles a moment to realize that Derek's fucking with him. "Ha, fucking, ha, asshole. I'mma emotional fountain _you_."

Derek smirks, and then considers it. "I'm trying to figure out whether that's something I want or not. It sounds messy."

"It's me," Stiles banters back. "Messy is an understatement."

Derek hmms noncommittally. "I'll concede your point."

"Of course you will," Stiles says, fairly disgruntled, even though he's not 100% sure what they just bickered about.

"There's a family vault in a bank in Mexico," Derek says. "That's why Cora ended up there when she escaped the fire, she knew there would be money there to help her survive on her own."

"Did you find out how—" Stiles starts.

Derek's expression tightens a little. "Mom threw her out of an upstairs window," he says. "Told her to run. She didn't know—She thought Laura and I were in the house, still—"

"I'm not surprised she survived," Stiles says. "Tough cookie."

"Yeah, she's a Hale," Derek says, and he looks less sad; getting to brag about his sister is something he'll have never considered being able to do since Laura's murder. There's hints of light in Derek Hale's eternal darkness, and Stiles is determined to find them all. "Cora was the one to locate the family beastiary, in the vault. It's a book we all get to read when we turn 21." Derek looks sly. "In wolf years."

"Ugh, there you go again, Hale family creepy enigmatic bullshit," Stiles says. "The day we get a straight answer out of any of you—"

Derek grins for a second, all teeth and lightning. "Peter will have read it before I ever got the chance to," Derek says. "Reading it again made some things come together."

"Yeah?"

"The rabid Omegas," Derek says. "If Peter could bond to them even in their feral state… Killing them would add to his power. It's like how Deucalion built up his pack." He keeps his voice quiet, so they're not overheard by his roommate, Gertha the Incredible Drooling Human Vegetable, but it's probably not necessary, Stiles thinks. "Killing an Omega gives you a little power. But killing a _Beta_ will give you an enormous amount of power. It's why Deucalion got them to build up their packs before taking them down. Killing one Omega gets you very little power."

"Killing one," Stiles repeats. His fingers clench in his sheets automatically. "But if you have a supernatural beacon constantly luring Omegas in…"

"Tiny amounts of power still add up," Derek says. "I wouldn't—I don't think Peter's all that powerful at the moment—But those five main Omega wolves… He'll be building them up to be Betas. And once they're connected to him enough—"

"Bam," Stiles says, and makes a cutting gesture across his throat.

"And it was the beastiary that made me realize Peter was accelerating his program," Derek says. "When you told me two more deaths had occurred with the same markings as the first apparent incubus death."

"How so?"

"Incubi are territorial. If there's more than one in the area, they won't kill humans; they'll feed directly off each other to fight for the territory. And they only feed at the _most_ once a day. It's an inbuilt mechanism; an evolutionary drive to help them survive in a world where people notice missing people."

"Damn." Stiles shakes his head. There is _nothing_ good about Peter increasing his power at an increased rate. "Does your beastiary have anything in about herbs that can control Omega werewolves?"

Derek shakes his head. "Nothing about the herbs, only a small amount on the Alpha marks being a conduit."

"To what?" Stiles asks.

"The Alpha power, I guess." Derek shuffles uncomfortably. His whole face is a disgruntled question mark. Stiles can empathize. Not knowing things is sometimes the _worst_ feeling.

"He said he didn't need the mark to take the Omegas power," Stiles says. "In the tent. So… we need to be on a lookout for what _else_ he might want a conduit too. It can't be a coincidence that he's making this move with the Nemeton acting up. Does your beastiary have anything on that?"

"A little. Nothing much."

Stiles thinks a little about what Deaton told them about the Alpha power. "Anything about how one gets or loses the Alpha power without killing someone with it, or inheriting it from an older family member?"

Derek shakes his head again. "It's not like the beastiary was designed as a how-to manual," he says. "It was written under the assumption that—"

"—you'd get the physical how-to manual from your pack," Stiles says.

Erica looks over at him from the end of his bed. Stiles barely flinches, which is ridiculous, because since when did he start to get used to the hallucinations and potential-ghosts?

"You make him sad," Erica says, her face turned to Derek. "And happy. It's like your heart. Dark and good."

Stiles glances at his hallucination? ghost? and wishes that he knew the difference for sure. If it's Erica—maybe the ache of missing her will lessen. Or maybe it'll get worse.

"But if you lose the highs, at least you're spared the lows," Erica says, and dammit, Erica's possibly not his ghost, or the ghost is feeding from his memories more now.

"What is it?" Derek asks, tense.

Stiles gestures at the space at the end of his bed. "Ghost or hallucination," he says, vaguely. "She's—There's this thing I used to do with Scott. Back when his parents were divorcing. I wasn't old enough to be any real help, so I used to throw different things at him, film quotes, song lyrics, you name it – because I didn't have the words of my own. And Er—my ghost-stroke-hallucination's quoting a song at me."

Derek's face pinches at the half-exhalation of Erica, but then he looks curious. "What's it like? Being literally haunted?"

And so, Stiles gamely answers questions until visiting hours are over; this time the nurse does kick Derek out, but Stiles barely feels it, because Derek smiles at him before leaving, and the memory keeps his brain quiet enough to nap for a little while. When he wakes up, it's almost visiting time again – but unfortunately this time, Stiles is not entirely pleased by his visitors.

Kyle McCall at his bedside? Ugh. Stiles really wants to know what he did in a past life to deserve that. And normally he would be psyched to see Lydia, but…

"Please tell me where you meant to go when you left your house?" Stiles asks of her, looking directly at her and blanking Kyle McCall.

" _Here_ , dummy," Lydia says.

"I know you like toting around werewolves," Stiles says, "which I'm thinking is the banshee equivalent of putting tiny dogs in your purse, and I blame Prada for not obliging and hopping into your bag for that—"

"Prada does that sometimes," Lydia says. "She's a good girl."

"-but," Stiles continues, viciously, his voice a low hiss, "did it have to be _that_ werewolf?? He jumped out my window the other day. The _window_."

Kyle looks chagrined, and Lydia opens her mouth to say something, probably something that's hella sarcastic because that's what banshee blood is made of: sarcasm and vinegar, but Kyle opens his mouth first. Alas.

"I'm here for a truce," Kyle says, looking slightly pained. Stiles wonders if Scott went True Alpha on his ass to get him here to apologize. He can picture it. That picture is _glorious_. Kyle sighs. "Look, I know why you hate me. Because I hurt Scott, more than—I hurt him. A lot. And I didn't protect him when I should have. But believe me… you can't hate me for it as much as I hate me for it."

"Believe me," Stiles says, and to his eternal regret he feels a little mollified by Kyle's words, "I can _try_."

"And I deserve every second of it," Kyle says, meeting Stiles' gaze and holding it.

Stiles glares, as much as he can considering his head's still sore from the burr hole, and then nods. It doesn't have to be a lasting truce, but if Kyle's trying to extract the stick from his ass – if only temporarily – Stiles can listen to him.

"I came to give you this," Kyle says, and holds out a small USB pen.

"An FBI souvenir that you swiped from the office?" Stiles gasps, holding his chest. "I'm so touched. Really." Lydia smirks a little.

"What's on it, dumb—" Kyle takes a slow breath in and out. "It's the McCall family beastiary, Stilinski. It's supposed to be just for pack, but as these people keep insisting—" Lydia preens a little under his slightly bitter sideglance "—you _are_ pack."

"Not really," Victoria croons, but she's just in Stiles' head this time, no ghost around. Stiles shakes it off. "You know Scott doesn't act like you're pack, no matter how much he keeps saying it."

"Thanks," Stiles says, probably a little too loudly as one of his roommates obnoxiously puts up the volume. On a marathon of Storage Wars. Stiles knows, in the event of the zombie apocalypse, who in this room _he's_ going to try and save first.

"And I brought you this," Lydia says, and holds up a USB pen twice the size of Kyle's. Stiles quirks a grin at that in Kyle's direction, and Kyle sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I translated the book that Jennifer had in her apartment." She wrinkles her nose. "It's mostly a fairy tale, as far as I can tell. But maybe there's something in there that I've missed?"

There won't be, Stiles knows. If Lydia can't find anything, then there isn't anything to find; still, it's nice of her to pretend otherwise.

"Thanks," he says. "To both of you, I guess."

"We're having a pack meeting at Scott's mom's house," Lydia says, rubbing in the fact that the McCall house doesn't belong to Kyle in the slightest anymore. "But I'll take my laptop and phone so that you can join in on Skype. I've sent you an invite already."

Stiles has been trying to get Lydia's online details for years. Years. "Thanks," Stiles says, again.

"Six o' clock," Lydia says. "And don't be late." She eyeballs the TV, and his uninteresting roommates. "Do you want me to try and swing you a private room?"

"Nah," Stiles says. "I'm getting quite fond of my roommates."

Lydia gives him a piercing look as Stiles' closest ward companion belches loudly and doesn't apologize for it. "I'll allow Stockholm Syndrome in this situation," she tells him.

#

Stiles is quite looking forward to being included in the pack meeting. That's despite Victoria Argent's voice in the back of his head reminding him that Scott's actions aren't 100% matching up with his words, and Stiles can kind of understand why, if he's being honest.

Stiles is Scott's best friend, without a doubt, no second guessing or moment's hesitation on that front. But Stiles is _learning_ to be an emissary. Deaton's already one. And Stiles is Scott's friend, but Deaton—Deaton is Scott's father-replacement figure. There's not a lot that Stiles can do to best that. Consciously Scott might be claiming him, but subconsciously, Scott's always going to look to Deaton first for what Stiles wants to be able to give. Despite Derek's oddly sweet text, Stiles is just the benchwarmer for the pack.

But conscious choice … maybe that's better than subconscious. And it's safer for Stiles in the long run, maybe, for Deaton to do the heavy lifting. His dad will be happier if Stiles can take a step back from the dangerous shit.

Now he has the plan in his head, he kinda likes it. Continue the emissary training, sure, because Deaton will want to retire at some point. But letting Deaton be the emissary to Scott's pack… It'll give Stiles time to learn, and Stiles will survive to graduation, which Dad will appreciate the most. Sure, Stiles loves the excitement — he's a dangerholic if he's going to be truthful to himself — but he can survive without it.

Doesn't mean he doesn't feel a pang of jealousy seeing Deaton there at Scott's side, seeing Derek lurking around at the back. It's a stupid burn of jealousy, especially considering that Stiles is only temporarily in hospital; he wants to be there so badly, even if he's only a benchwarmer. He supposes that's what being a pack is meant to feel like. Like being a kick-ass lacrosse team.

Lydia arranges everyone so that Stiles can see most of them, and she trails a large microphone which she has to have sweet-talked from the audio-visual guys at school into the center of the table so he can hear them too, and Stiles plugs in some headphones so he can hear properly. Also it blocks out his snoring roommates, which is totally also a great benefit.

Stiles shrinks the screen down to half a page, and loads up the beastiary and book PDF files in the second half, scrolling to the part in the McCall Beastiary which mentions Alphas and emissaries and pack dynamics. Stiles' gaze automatically goes to an inscription underneath a mark which looks familiar – the wannabe Alpha mark that Peter's been leaving on his victims.

He reads the text underneath as the meeting kicks off on the Skype side of his screen.

"I can't believe," Melissa is saying, "that it's been a week since you found out I married a werewolf and none of you thought to tell me?"

Oh, Stiles thinks guiltily. Yeah, they're kind of shit at telling people things. He'll always feel bad for sending Lydia to the loft with Peter there. His gaze flickers over the text below, and he can feel the tension in his shoulders start before he realizes what he's looking at; his body's clearly used to recognizing trauma before his brain catches on. He'd chastise his brain, but it has had a hole poked into it recently; it's allowed to be functioning a little poorly.

"I can't believe I married a werewolf," Melissa says, sounding stunned. On the small screen, Kyle's face is obscured by pixilation, but his body language is full guilt. "And I had _sex_ with a werewolf," Melissa continues, sounding appalled.

" _Mom_ ," Scott howls, mortified by the overshare.

"Don't sound scandalized," Allison says, jabbing a finger through the air at Scott, "because you were never adverse to the idea of _me_ —"

"Everyone's too young for this conversation," Melissa declares, looking sickly even over the poor webcam quality video.

"Ha, look at that," Stiles says. " _That's_ the awesome you missed out on, Agent McCall, because of your douchebagginess and dumbassery."

"Those are not even real words—" Kyle tries to protest, but Stiles' audio feed is blacked-out by a barrage of support for those two words, because move over Danny Mahealani, there's only one person in Beacon Hills more universally loved; Melissa McCall. (Alas, while Stiles' Dad is widely adored, there's a small segment of population that hates him. Namely the criminals. Then again, some of them seem awfully fond of committing small crimes just to spend time in his cells.)

"We're here to look at the McCall beastiary," Lydia says, cutting through the small amount of bickering still happening. She's definitely leader material. "Specifically page 72."

Stiles checks what page he's on – yep, 72.

"This isn't good," Scott says, after there's a long moment of silence. He gestures at Deaton, beckoning his mentor over. "It says werewolves with an emissary can draw on druidic powers. So if there's a power source in the area—"

"That would include the Nemeton," Deaton confirms.

"Then Peter could be drawing on it," Scott says.

Stiles turns a couple of pages, looking for something more on power sources.

"Peter doesn't have an emissary," Isaac says.

"He does," Allison says, and points herself towards Deaton. "You're the Hale pack emissary, aren't you?"

Deaton looks uncomfortable. "If you're going on semantics, it's highly possible that the rituals could… still work on that fairly literal definition."

There's silence as that sinks in.

"And that could cause him to get Alpha status much quicker," Lydia says. "Page 84. Three-fold sacrifice on a power centre, by an individual with connection to or possession of druidic powers."

Stiles flicks to that page and yeah, that's not good.

That's really not good.

He reads down the text, and a cold feeling fizzles down his spine; the text doesn't actually say it's Alpha-making power, and the illustration is of what could be a Darach, a figure cloaking in black, blasting lightning out of their hands, and wow, this is so far from good that Stiles doesn’t even have a word for it.

When Stiles Stilinski has no words, it's a massive thing.

"I read that section as soon as I heard about your three-fold murders on the FBI database," Kyle offers. "He would need to perform three sacrifices on the Nemeton itself for a power surge of that magnitude. I presume Julia Baccari is his first. With his connection to Alan being his access to the powers… If we protect the tree, maintain a mountain ash perimeter… we can stop him from having full access to that power. The good thing is that he would need a physical connection to the tree as well as an astral one, so even—Even if we fail at stopping him from killing a second—"

"We already have," Stiles says. All the faces turn his way. "Julia was his second."

"What do you—" Allison starts.

"No," Scott says, "he's right. Of course he is. Laura. When I—" He looks over guiltily in Derek's direction. "When I found your sister's body, it was right by the Nemeton."

"So a third body is all he needs," Derek says, his voice as quiet as a whisper. Stiles might have used the term _as a ghost_ before, but he knows from personal experience now: ghosts are mostly not quiet.

"We need to break his connection to you," Scott says, looking at Deaton. "Can that be done?"

"I," Deaton says, "yes, technically, but-"

"But what," Scott says, briskly all-business. "He's got enough power as it is. What do we have to do to break his connection to you?"

Deaton's frown is clear even on the small Skype window. "There's a ritual. We don't have time for the melodramatic version – the connection's through blood."

"My blood?" Scott asks, and automatically starts rolling up his sleeve.

"My own," Deaton says.

"No wonder you sound reluctant," Isaac says.

"I have no problem with that aspect," Deaton says.

"Then what is the problem?" Dad asks, and Stiles startles, because he hadn't noticed his dad was in the meeting; Stiles leans closer. His dad's near Derek. That's quite… it's a nicer view than Stiles thought it might be.

The fact he hadn't noticed his dad because he was looking at Derek is another of those instances Stiles is going to gloss over until he's ready to look at it more closely.

"Once an emissary makes a connection to a pack, that connection cannot be broken until the pack is all dead, or the connection is moved by the ritual to another family line," Deaton says. "I would be your pack's emissary until my death."

"That doesn't sound too bad," Scott says, "unless you don't want to be—"

"I would be honoured," Deaton rushes to say. "Believe me, I would. But I've been training Mr. Stilinski up to tread in my footprints, and if I take this position—"

"It would be decades before Stiles could be my emissary," Scott says, and Stiles' chest twinges in pain. Especially when Scott looks up at the webcam, directly. "What do you think, Stiles?"

"I think," Stiles starts, and mentally finishes it, because he knows Scott. And he knows his best friend's _I've already decided_ expression. "I think it's the only thing we can do. Peter can't have access to druidic powers. Who knows what he would do with it? Besides… Kinda digging the idea of being out of the direct line of danger. Think my dad might approve, too."

"You betcha," Dad calls out from the background, and Stiles can see Derek nodding too.

"Okay," Scott says, and nods, and turns to Deaton. "What do we do?"

They don't turn off the webcam, but Stiles mutes it from his side; he doesn't want to let out any sound that shows what he's really feeling. It is jealousy. Even though he's been thinking of himself as a benchwarmer to the position, he hadn't thought he would _never_ get the position. And Deaton's healthy, and relatively young for a grown-up – by the time he dies, Stiles will be retirement age himself.

He'll _never_ be Scott's emissary.

He's tearing up a little, but he's in a hospital, and his webcam isn't high-res enough for anyone on the other side to see his wet eyes; Stiles forces himself to swallow, and reads a little more of the McCall Beastiary. It's somewhat more helpful than the Argent one, but the handwriting's hard to decipher at points. Scott will be glad to know his inability to use punctuation in text messages – his only real grammatical flaw since working hard on his English scores – is a familial trait.

Deaton does perform a few weird gestures, and draws on the table with salt, before cutting his arm and dropping it into a glass; there's something about Deaton's arm gestures, though, which make Stiles realize it's just emissary mojo at work – the melodrama, while the focus is on him. It's probably just the ingestion of blood that's the real trick for this ritual.

Still, despite the burn of jealousy, Stiles feels a little bit relieved when Scott makes a face and drinks the glass with the blood in it. At least Peter's free from that source of power.

It still won't stop him from using his Omegas to get power, but...

"Where else could he get power?" Scott asks; he's a little further away from the microphone now, probably forgetting Stiles is a part of this meeting.

"Kyle—" Melissa starts.

"I can go," Kyle says. "You want me to—"

"Yes," Scott and Melissa say in tandem.

"We'll escort him out," Aiden offers, smiling at Kyle. It's suitably menacing, like all of Aiden's facial expressions, and Kyle gulps audibly.

"Okay," Kyle says, his shoulders sinking.

"Cora, she'd still be his pack, and as a Beta…" Derek says, and brings up his phone in a panic; Stiles smiles as his dad hovers by Derek's side, putting a hand on Derek's shoulder as Derek calls Cora. A tense couple of minutes later, Derek calls out, "She's miles away. She's fine."

Stiles can breathe again. Thank _fuck_ Cora's okay, because Derek really could do without losing another metaphorical limb. Ever.

Still, it's an interesting thought – what other sources of power can they cut from Peter? Can they thwart his game? They've stopped him from the druidic trio of Nemeton murders without even having to try and protect the tree, which would be a logistical nightmare of epic proportions.

"Morrell?" Allison questions. Oh, good girl, Stiles thinks. Excellent thinking.

"She's in Europe at the moment, recovering," Deaton says. "I'll give her an update, though, just in case."

"What?" Isaac breathes, worried. "Can he, like—" Isaac makes a gesture. "Teleport to Europe?"

"It's called a plane," Allison says, hip-checking him lightly. Isaac's cheeks must go a deep red, because Stiles can see the color of his face darkening even on the poor resolution of the video.

"I think you should run," Erica says.

"Yeah," Stiles says, out loud, and then he's glad he put the microphone on mute. "I'd love to go for a run. Really would. But I'm on bed rest, and—"

"No," Erica says, and pushes her face _through_ Stiles' laptop until it's right up against his. " _Run_."

"But why—" Stiles starts, and then gets it.

Shit. _Shit._ Stiles unmutes the microphone, hitting the shortcut automatically. "Guys, you need to go to the Nemeton. You need to guard it after all."

"Stiles?" Lydia prompts, her face moving closer to the webcam. "What do you mean?"

"There's another way of Peter getting access to the druidic powers," Stiles says. " _Me_."

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

_“We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness.”_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

There's a crashing down the corridor, and it could be anything, but Stiles knows one thing with clarity: it can't be a coincidence.

"I think he found me," Stiles blurts, looking to the door in worry.

"Hide yourself," Dad says. "Worst case scenario it's a patient knocking over a trolley and you look dumb for a few minutes."

"And don't take your phone," Scott says. "Peter's good with tech."

"Got it," Stiles says. His dad opens his mouth to say something else, but the adrenaline's already beginning to spike. Stiles shuts down the laptop, and grabs for the pouch of mountain ash in his possession, slipping it over his head. It hits his chest harder than he expected; the lodestone he retrieved from the vending machine is still in there, as a reminder to take it to Deaton to deal with. Stiles doesn't have time to take it out.

"I said running was a good idea," Erica hisses at him, as Stiles yanks the laptop power cable out of the wall. "Running with a computer's just going to slow you down."

There's a murmur of male voices, and Stiles curses – all the nurses on rotation tonight are female, he's already scoped that out.

"I know," Stiles says, and he pushes the laptop into Gertha's bedside drawer before jogging to the door. Thankfully Gertha's still asleep, so she won't stop him or raise a fuss. He peers out into the hallway; the nurse on this floor is distracted, and he moves in the opposite direction of the sound he heard, looking for anything he can use as a weapon. He risks dropping into a supply closet, and manages to find a wrapped up disposable scalpel; it's not going to be _much_ of a weapon, but it's better than nothing.

He heads back out, because being trapped in a small room's not a great plan.

He's wheezing by the time he's at the end of the hallway; at first he thinks it's a good thing Coach isn't there to hear him, because he'll _never_ make first line if Coach thinks he's unfit. Then he's weirdly pleased that it's taken this long to start wheezing – he's just had scary skull-hole-acquiring surgery, so it's probably because of Coach's running that he's even in this good a shape.

"Come on," Erica hisses.

"It's all right for you," Stiles mouths back, because ghost or hallucination, she's connected to his mind. She can hear him. Whereas the werewolves currently chasing him can't hear her, and it would suck if they heard him. "You're a metaphysical being. You don't exist. Of course you can run like a freaking gazelle."

"I regret ever thinking you were a BAMF, Stilinski," Erica sing-songs from the far end of the hallway.

A part of Stiles worries for an instant that Erica's the ghost, and thus he shouldn't be listening to what she says, but if she hadn't said run… Stiles might not have come to the connection he had, and Peter would already have him. Him dying horribly probably gets nastily in the way of whatever plans the spirit in the Nemeton has for him.

Which is probably death, because that's Stiles' life. Dramatic irony enjoys making him its baby momma.

Ugh, and now Stiles is thinking about being pregnant, which isn't the first time he's had the thought, but this is the first time his brain has somehow slid automatically to the idea of being pregnant with wolf cubs and _what_. His brain should come with some serious warnings for this kind of kinky shit.

"If you're my subconscious," Stiles mouths at Erica as she leads him to the stairs. He dips by the nurse's station, and is rewarded by a discarded hospital gown still in its plastic lying between the computer and the back of the desk. He rips off the plastic as he runs, and shoves it into a medical disposal bin on the way; the plastic rustles, and Stiles wants to wince, but there's more of a chance of Peter hearing his racing heart and the sound of his bare feet slapping on the tiles than a bit of plastic crinkling.

Erica's ghost eyes him warily from the door to the stairwell, and Stiles has to push his hand _through_ her to open the door, which is probably going to give him nightmares later.

"Why are you wasting time?" Erica hisses. "Get moving."

"In a second," Stiles says, accidentally out loud. He winces, but they'll follow his scent to the stairwell anyway – he quickly peers down, a familiar lurch tugging his gut at the sight of the floor, five floors below. He ignores it, and pulls his hospital gown over his head, leaving him mostly naked and shivering in the ice-cold stone stairwell.

"Not how I imagined you stripping for me," Erica breathes, and Stiles ignores her – he hisses as the cold metal of the banister collides with his chest, but he leans over and drops the gown; it flutters down in the gap between the stairwell. "Oh," Erica says, startled. "Back to being the man with the plan."

"Attempting to be," Stiles mouths, yanking the new gown on over his head and heading up the stairs. Hopefully the scent will distract some of them, if not all of them.

He emerges onto the seventh floor, picking it at random, and it's a mistake – there's a nurse at the middle of the corridor, and she startles on seeing him.

Stiles hangs his head, exaggeratedly. "You got me," he says, and points at the nearest room. "I'm going back in, I swear."

The nurse looks perplexed, but she nods, making a shooing gesture, and Stiles hurries inside the room with a wince. When he enters, he understands why she looked confused – this hallway is part of the maternity ward. Ah, crap.

"Nice going," Erica says.

"Shut up," Stiles mouths, and casts around. His fingers curl around the pouch of mountain ash. There's only enough for maybe five uses, but it's not enough to get all of them, and Stiles is too panicked to believe that there's more in there. He's managed to eke out the mountain ash, make it go a little further, in Deaton's sessions with him, but he can only do it when he's calm. He's beyond calm now. If Stiles uses the ash just to protect himself, Peter will use one of the patients or nurses in the hospital as leverage. He knows Stiles won't be able to resist that. Especially if it's a pregnant woman.

Hiding is still his best option. He runs to the window, just in case, but there's no easy way down. He's not a werewolf, so it's not like he can survive the jump. He can hear the nurse pacing outside, and one of the two women in this room is awake; she stares at him, eyes widening, and her hands reach for her warning button.

Stiles shakes his head, frantically, and backs up, putting a finger to his mouth. She's open her mouth, but there must be something of genuine terror on Stiles' face, because she settles back down onto her pillow, eyes wide, tracking him warily. He mimics "go to sleep!" at her, and she closes her eyes for a few seconds before opening her mouth again. Stiles shakes his head, and ducks and crawls under the nearest bed, which is pretty shit as far as strategies go, but he's just got to delay the wolves, not stop them. He holds the pouch with the mountain ash and the lodestone close to his chest, and wonders if Scott would have maybe thought to get the main lodestone from Deaton, because Deaton would know to activate it…

But no, that would be a massive leap. And without a clue, the pack wouldn't think to do it, because they wouldn't know one had been missed in the clean-up – or even if so, they might not think Stiles would have wandered off to get it. And that's a shame – Stiles could have probably sneaked it into wherever Peter's lair actually is… They could have gotten a headstart on what Peter has planned…

"Hiding under the bed, huh?" Erica asks, lying next to him, staring upwards in disgust at the underneath of the hospital bed. "You know it's supposed to be the other way around, right? With the monster under here?"

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, and nearly yells; he clamps a hand over his mouth, because the hand that's appeared on his chest isn't real. He turns his head into the grinning visage of Victoria Argent. Hallucinations for up to two more weeks, the doctor said. Stiles' heart is pounding, which probably increases the risk of his hematoma recurring.

"Didn't you think to ask your dad during that _pathetic_ heart-to-heart whether your mom asked your dad first?" Victoria says. "Makes sense, the whole line of your family being _cowards_."

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, so he can't see her. "You're not real," he tells himself, not speaking out loud. "You're not real."

"I'm real to you, right now," Victoria says.

"Ugh, what a conversation hog," Erica sighs. "And you know at least one of us isn't real."

"Assuming the rules of ghosts are finite and immutable," Stiles thinks, and Victoria laughs under her breath, and it might just be in Stiles' head, but the sound bristles like ice shards stabbing into his gut.

"All things considered," Victoria says, placing her hand over his mouth, "maybe you're the monster under the bed."

Stiles' eyes fly to hers, terror and anger warring in his chest, and she disappears; in time for him to see a pair of shoes standing in the doorway to the room. An occupied pair of shoes. It could be a nurse, because they favoured comfortable footwear, but it could be one of the wolves after him.

He puts his hand over his mouth; exhaling probably sent his scent out further, and why hadn't he tested these things with Scott? It should be one of the things they know about werewolves by now. Stiles thinks of all the herbs that would block his scent that Deaton made him learn, and curses that he doesn't have any.

Well, he knows what's going in his emergency kit now.

…if he survives.

"Maybe here," a male voice says, and the accent sounds oddly familiar – but Stiles doesn't even give his companions time to join him; he rolls out of the bed, hand in the mountain ash already. The werewolf's clearly used to his victims being placid – and yeah, Stiles kinda recognizes the werewolf now he's closer, he's one of the five Kyle chased out of the Senator – because he doesn't react in time _not_ to be stunned by Stiles' handful of mountain ash in the face.

The werewolf roars in pain, and Stiles looks down the corridor to see Peter leading the other four werewolves directly for him, and there's someone else in the way – a nurse. Shit, shit, shit. Peter notices her as soon as Stiles does, and Peter grins at Stiles, slow and cold, his claws sliding out. The nurse looks between Stiles and Peter, and lurches towards Stiles.

Stiles might be in mortal danger, but he does take a second in his head to snark at Victoria. Ha. H might be a monster under the bed, but at least under fluorescent artificial hospital light he's a better choice than charming, deadly Peter.

Unfortunately, the nurse is not fast enough, and Peter has his claws around her throat before Stiles can move back.

Dammit. Dammit.

"Killed one woman in the past," Victoria croons, leaning casually against one doorframe. "Want another dead woman on your conscience?"

Behind Stiles, the mountain ash dusted werewolf staggers towards them, claws out.

"I'm gonna roast you, you _wanker_ ," the wolf yells at Stiles.

"Calm down, Harry," Peter says, smoothly. The wolf – Harry – scrapes at his face with his sleeves, shaking his ridiculous curly shock of hair, and gives Stiles a death glare as he comes to a halt. "Stiles will be joining the pack. You might want to be nice to someone who's going to outrank you."

Stiles glares at Peter, and ignores the way the nurse in Peter's hold slides her panicked gaze to Stiles, starting to look scared.

 _Monster under the bed_ , his thoughts say, and Stiles tenses, chin tilting up defiantly. "So you felt your connection to Deaton being snapped," Stiles says. "How sure are you that I—"

"Not a hundred per cent," Peter says, tilting his head and staring at Stiles, unblinking. "But then I figured if it doesn't work, I can just kill you."

Stiles glares, and lifts up the scalpel in his grip. Peter eyeballs him. "Please, what are you going to do with that pigsticker? I'm a werewolf, dumbass. Stainless steel is for changelings, elves."

The nurse in Peter's grip makes a whimpering sound of fear.

"Oh, shut up, you'll live," Peter tells the nurse. "Unless the teenage boy makes the wrong decision. I've told my nephew countless times how stupid it is to do that, but he seems fond of it as a life choice. Maybe it'll work out well for you, too." Peter glares at Stiles. "Not that it's worked too well for him."

Stiles glares back, ignoring the dig. "Derek was twice the Alpha you ever were," he says, slow and measured as he can, considering his breathing is shallow with fear. He has a scalpel, four fistfuls of mountain ash and a lodestone. And the inklings of a plan, but time is what he needs.

Time. That's it. That's the missing ingredient. It's just a good thing he has another weapon in his arsenal too: The fact that he's the best master of distraction on the whole west coast.

"While I always appreciate a good _burn,_ " Peter says, showing his teeth, "I'll accept the criticism. I plan to do much better this time."

Stiles glares at him, but takes stock of the other wolves with Peter – two teens with brown hair, one with lighter hair, and one with darker skin, hair and tattoos up both arms, so maybe he's older than the others. Definitely the five werewolves from the Senator. Kyle had properly scented that they were wolves… unless that was why the Senator had wolfsbane carvings in the walls. Maybe the whole building has inbuilt werewolf scent hiding properties. Stiles wants to investigate that so badly, but to do that, he'll have to survive.

And he's not so sure that's going to happen.

"Just hold on," Victoria says. "Your pathetic friends will save you. I can hear them coming."

Stiles flinches.

"She can't," Erica says, folding her arms and glaring at Victoria, and now they're interacting, crap. Probably _both_ hallucinations. Or the ghost is freaking clever. And if Stiles' head didn't hurt from the healing burr hole, it would now.

"Stiles?" Peter prompts. "Are you all there?"

"I hit my head," Stiles says, pointing at the offending body part. "I've gone a little loopy."

"Nothing too different from usual," Peter says. "So, Stiles. What's it gonna be? Do I have to kill this nurse, or are you going to come with me willingly?"

Stiles gestures at the still-spluttering Irish boy. "Aren't you just going to knock me out and carry me to your lair?"

"You know I need you willingly," Peter says, rolling his eyes. "So that when I kill you, I get more power, yadda yadda yadda."

"Gotta say, you're really selling this," Stiles says, folding his arms and giving him his best _are you kidding me_ expression.

"How about this," Peter says. "Your banshee's intervention gave me a nice six days inside your dad's workplace. Never mind that was 96 hours longer than regulation, I'll forgive that. Because it gave me such a good glimpse on the inner workings of the building."

Stiles frowns. "What do you—"

Peter digs a claw into the nurse's neck, a shallow cut; a line of blood drips down her pale neck, staining the collar of her scrubs. "You come with me willingly, and I tell you where the bombs I hid around Beacon Hills are." Peter's grin widens. "It's just like Mr. Argent says. Sometimes you just gotta solve the supernatural problems with natural solutions."

Stiles stares. "You don't have explosives planted around Beacon Hills."

"It's funny what the internet can teach you nowadays," Peter says. "Are you willing to take the risk?" Peter leans into the nurse's neck, sniffing. "You're mine either way, but if you choose… I guess she can live. I can smell baby powder on her skin. I bet she's a mom."

The nurse whimpers, affirming Peter's guess. Stiles lets his eyes close, and he raises the scalpel. Peter tenses – and Stiles is gratified that he isn't certain what Stiles' choice is going to be – and Victoria hisses at him.

"You can drag the ritual out for a few hours, if time is what you want."

"They'll find you soon," Erica says. "You're doing the right thing. I'm your conscience, Pinocchio. Which… does that make me Jiminy Cricket?"

Oh, Erica's very probably his subconscious, stealing from fairytales this time. Which means Victoria could be his ghost.

Which means he shouldn't do what she says. Or maybe he _should,_ because of the oppositional thing. It's so confusing. It doesn't matter, though – he doesn't have a choice. What he does have… is a _chance_.

Stiles draws the scalpel down his forearm, in the same way he saw Deaton do, and he holds it up. "I saw this earlier," Stiles says.

"I read that in the McCall beastiary," Peter says, and pushes the nurse in his grip to the four werewolves behind him; Stiles notices with gratification that they don't look pleased to be holding the nurse with their claws. "Technology does make being a—what's the term? Bad Ass Motherfucker? – Yeah. Technology does make it easier to be a BAMF. Protip: Don't keep your secrets on computers when you know your bad guy can see them."

"I do this," Stiles says, "and you don't blow up my dad. That's the deal, right? You have to know we can do this the easy or the hard way, and—"

"Yes, that's the deal," Peter says, striding forward. Stiles winces, and holds out his arm; he feels a little stupid for not seeing the bomb gambit coming, and he's almost sure it is just a ploy, but there's that voice in the back of his head that doesn't have its own ghost to represent it going, _what if, what if, what if_.

Peter steps closer, teeth extended, smug grin extended right to his eyes, aglow with the mad satisfaction of insane machinations coming together, and Stiles closes his eyes, because the idea of Peter drinking from his arm—Yep, added nightmare fodder to his life. Awesome.

He jolts when something cold touches his skin, and Stiles opens one eye and then the other to find that Peter's holding a glass underneath the wound, collecting Stiles' blood in it.

"I'm a werewolf, not an animal," Peter says, rolling his eyes. "Boys, gag her and tie her to a gurney or something. We're about to get us an emissary."

Two of the four grab the nurse and haul her into one of the nearby rooms.

"They do know you plan to kill them, right?" Stiles hisses.

Peter shrugs. "I haven't lied to them. I'll raise them to Beta level, teach them what they need to know, teach them to bond—Who knows. One of them might get lucky and take me out. Or…"

"Or what?" Stiles asks.

"Or I kill all of you and become an even more powerful Alpha than that pathetic demon wolf Deucalion," Peter says. He holds up the glass and smiles at Stiles. "Bottoms up."

Stiles grabs his arm back and holds onto the wound tightly, and he isn't expecting to feel anything – but he does. A warmth blooms in his heart, burning hot like a furnace, and Stiles can hear his heartbeat in his ears for a few moments – along with three others, just faintly, just for a few seconds. One of the heartbeats, the loudest, is calm. One is so far away. And there's another one, quiet, but getting louder. And quickening.

Like the owner of that heart is getting closer.

"Quite a rush, isn't it?" Peter breathes. There's a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth, and he wipes it with his sleeve. "Too bad that you're too untrained to access the conduit. A fully trained emissary can use the bond both ways. Alas, you're going to die too young to master it, probably."

"Probably?" Stiles asks. The heartbeats are fading, and he concentrates on them as much as he can, because he doesn't want them to go away. Especially the middle one. It's growing stronger. Closer.

"My nephew," Peter says, and smirks. "That's what you're hearing. His heart pounding like a jackhammer. He thinks he's going to find your body spread-eagled, or signs of a struggle. And instead—" He gestures at Irish, at his other four Omega werewolves, and they assemble behind him in an arrow formation. "He's going to see you willingly go with us. Quite delightful really."

Stiles stares at him.

"Or maybe you stay here and go with him," Peter says. "I can sacrifice someone else for my third sacrifice to the Nemeton. It doesn't have to be you. I wanted it to be. Can't you see the dramatic irony. Three people that my nephew has loved—" He stretches his arms, and tilts his head. "Gone." His eyes turn flinthard. "Like ash."

Stiles swallows.

"Of course, I could also have bombs on timers," Peter says. "You don't know for sure, but you know I'm mad enough for it to be true. And why wouldn't I want this whole pathetic town to burn?"

Stiles stares hatefully at Peter and pulls out his mountain ash. He puts his hand into the powder. The sound has nearly faded, but the pattern of heartbeats is still clear enough.

Derek's nearly here.

Stiles turns in time to see Derek, Scott, and the twins burst through the doorways, and Stiles locks eyes with them. Stiles holds out his palm of mountain ash.

"Do it," Scott yells, "throw it—"

"Scott. I'm sorry. You may be an Alpha… but you're not _my_ Alpha," Stiles says, mouth twisting, and as Scott's eyes lock sadly on his, Stiles throws the ash up in the air.

As it falls, the McCall pack werewolves all move forwards a few steps, like they can stop him, but when Derek jolts to a halt they all stop behind him, looking confused.

Peter chuckles, glaring at his enemy pack over Stiles' shoulder. The mountain ash circle reaches perfectly to the walls of the hallway; neither side can pass. Stiles stands in the middle; stands still and stares, his decision written clearly in the slump of his shoulders and the sad expression on his face.

"Don't feel too bad for Stiles," Peter says. "The big bad wolf didn't really give him a choice."

"What did you do?" Derek breathes.

"Aiden, Ethan-" Scott gestures at the door, meaning circle behind, but Peter doesn't even flinch; they must have an exit point already that he's confident won't be found in time. The twins nods and disappear out, and Scott rolls his sleeves up. "I can break this," he says, confidently.

"And I'll just throw it again," Stiles says, tilting his chin. "And again, if I have to."

"But he just said—" Scott blurts, looking between Stiles and Peter. And Stiles just tries not to look at Derek, because his expression—

It's abomination. It's Jennifer Blake's real face. It's Laura's body being cut in half, and dug up again.

Stiles wishes he could wipe it from his face, but he can't. This isn't what he can do right now.

"He said I had no choice," Stiles says. "But I did."

"And you're choosing _Peter_?" Scott says, his eyebrows leaping to his hairline.

"As you chose Deucalion," Stiles says, and he does glance at Derek. "As you chose Jennifer, at the end."

Derek's mouth opens a little, but nothing comes out.

"Sometimes we do what we have to," Stiles says, and steps back, slowly making sure not to break the mountain ash.

He turns then, tearing his gaze away from the almost palpable disappointment, and it's a moment too late to miss Isaac bursting in the door, holding Stiles' abandoned hospital gown from earlier high like a flag. He catches a glimpse of it in the side of his vision, dropping like a token, and he clenches his fists and starts towards Peter.

"Stiles—" Derek says.

Just his name.

Just his name, and it's too much.

Stiles turns around slowly. He glances at Peter. "I have to say goodbye," he says, quiet and low.

"And who am I to be an obstacle to young, doomed love," Peter says. "Stalling me won't give you a magic third option."

Stiles lifts his arm to suck some of the blood from his own wound, to stop it dripping to the floor. "A goodbye might help me to live with the nightmare of this choice." He glances at Derek, who steps forward, as close to the mountain ash as he can. "For however long that may be."

Peter nods, and Stiles steps back over the mountain ash line to the centre of the circle, and then over to stand by Derek. Derek can't move forwards, but Stiles can – it's something _else_ that keeps him frozen inches away from Derek.

A force that feels like powerful magnets, both drawing him to and away from Derek.

"You shouldn't bother," Derek says. "Just go with your Alpha."

"Peter's not my Alpha," Stiles says. "Scott never will be."

Derek looks confused. "But—"

Stiles looks at Derek, and thinks about everything that's happened over the last few weeks. Everything that everyone has said. He has a two-fold plan from here on out. One thing that should work. And one that might. Might, but he needs it to work so badly. More than anything.

He thinks about sparks of power. He thinks about Alphas. He thinks about wanting to wipe that sad, disappointed look from Derek's face permanently. He thinks about how knotted up he's been over the photos, and he'd spared barely a minute feeling sorry for himself before all his worry was spent on Derek. How Derek would feel seeing the photos. Of the terrible guilt that wasn't Derek's fault. Stiles thinks back to his sketch of his fault tree, with Deucalion and Gerard warring in the roots, and Derek and Stiles up in the leaves. Up near the gaps in the canopy, waiting for a spark of light to turn the tree into a beacon of hope, not darkness.

And then he stops thinking, because thinking won't make this part work, and he acts instead.

Derek can't cross the mountain ash line, but Stiles _can_ , and with his own blood trickling down his arm, and his blood lining his mouth, he reaches out and takes Derek's cheek in one, shaking hand; he leans up, and with a trembling mouth he kisses Derek.

For a second, it's awkward, and Stiles feels like a complete idiot—and then Derek kisses back, and he feels like a _genius_ for instigating this, because the werewolf can kiss like a dream. In amongst the nightmares, here's the light that Stiles was looking for, and it's nothing more or less than Derek's mouth against his, warm and possessive.

Stiles wonders for a moment whether in an alternate reality, where they found each other with no supernatural interference, just naturally gravitating to each other, inexorable like the dawn… He wonders whether that version of Stiles and Derek would get a first kiss.

If they did, it would be nothing like this one. It wouldn't taste of blood and smell of mountain ash and it wouldn't be drowning in desperation and sorrow and regret. That first kiss is a burst of potential in the dying remnants of the real thing, the here and now kiss, that's altogether too much business, but oh, a little pleasure too.

More than Stiles ever pictured in a kiss. It's enough to drown in, and water's better than fire, if Stiles has to choose a way to go. Fire is desperation, fire strips you of your hope as it crawls down your lungs. Water lets you hope, right until the end. Water lets you fight.

This first kiss is a fighting kiss, which makes it just about perfect in the weirdest, weirdest way. Stiles' mouth tingles with the kiss, and he presses into it desperately for a last second before pulling back, eyes wide and locked onto Derek's, desperate and frightened, because Peter still might kill him, soon if not tonight.

"Stiles—" Derek says, again, and somehow it sounds like a prayer. Stiles closes his eyes and steps back out of the circle, leaving the hallway blocked up with mountain ash, and then he turns and stumbles away, keeping his gaze averted from Peter, who's probably still smirking.

"Now I'm a little surprised at your choice," Peter says.

"Yeah?" Stiles says, and quirks a cool look backwards. "Like I ever really enjoyed hanging out with them anyway. They're a load of losers, really."

"I've always thought so," Peter agrees. "All right, boys, let's chop chop. We've got some pack bonding to do."

Scott's eyes widen and Stiles turns his gaze away, letting one of the five Omegas start to tug him away.

"Hate to just… cut and run," Peter says. "Wait, that's a lie. Oh, well." He turns and beckons at the Omegas. "Time to go, boys." He sideglances at Stiles. "Don't make it easy for them to follow."

Stiles glances back as Scott starts pushing at the circle he's left, trying to get through; he grabs some of the ash and throws another circle at the next section of hallway. Man, he wishes he could throw lines. That would be _easier_. He'll ask Deaton about it later… if he survives. Sadly, that seems to be a recurring theme in his brain today. Well, this whole year. Kind of his whole life, really. Ducking his head and refusing to look back, Stiles follows Peter and the Omegas into the nearest elevator.

"I presume you have a melodramatic escape plan in mind?" Stiles drawls quietly, folding his arms and looking at Peter's profile while the Omegas cram into the small space behind them, holding onto each other and looking nervous now they're not facing down Scott and his pack. "Even if we get to the first floor before them, Allison and Lydia will be there, and the twins—"

"Why would I want a melodramatic exit?" Peter asks, looking disdainfully at Stiles. "It's all well and good in small doses, but too much drama makes a fella look cheap." He smiles, and depresses the button to stop them at floor four. "Just watch and learn, oh emissary-of-mine."

Stiles does what he's told, only because he's playing along; Peter probably knows that. Stiles standing still is probably all the clue Peter knows to realize Stiles is only humouring him. Peter stands out in the hallway, spreads his arms, and reaches out and pulls the fire alarm.

He beams as chaos instantly erupts around them, nurses fleeing into action. His smile fades after a few moments. "Get out of the elevator, morons. They shut down elevators during fire threats."

Stiles should have known that really well, but the fire protocols he installed in the Stilinski and McCall households (and after a summer of pleading and wheedling, in the Martin and Mahealani houses too; also the Whittemore house when Jackson threw a snit that Danny had them and he didn't, but Stiles got a new-to-him computer for doing it, because the Whittemores at least knew how to recompense people doing favors for them) all were stairs-only protocols.

"The stairs are this way," Stiles sighs, pointing to the stairwell that's the furthest away from the one he ran up trying to escape Peter.

"Stairs?" Peter says, in a horrible tone that Stiles understands with distinct clarity:

He's going to regret this so much.

And yeah, yeah, the less said later about Peter hauling him onto his back and leaping from a window, the better; Peter's killed more people than Stiles can count on his fingers and toes, all for power, and the whole thing is creepy enough. Worse so because he doesn't even shake Stiles off his back when he lands – Stiles has to bat at him to let him free. The other Omegas manage the jump much more shakily.

"This way," Peter says, and they head towards the overflow car park; traffic is already in chaos, and Stiles is just about to ask how they think they're going to escape with Scott's pack probably about to find them, until he sees Peter pull a cellphone out of his pocket, and at first he panics that Peter's had an accomplice the whole time, but then he remembers seeing on CSI that people use cellphones to detonate—

—there's a terrible sound, and the air displaces around Stiles' head and his ears ring and his stomach drops.

"Just one of Argent's vehicles," Peter says, glancing over his shoulder and stalking away. "Don't worry. It was empty." He tilts his head to consider it. "Probably."

Stiles freezes for a moment, staring after Peter, because if it was in a full car park, someone might have—someone might have gotten hurt in the fall out.

"That was kinda melodramatic," one of the Omegas whispered to the others.

"You—" Stiles starts, and if Cora thought he'd looked dreadful on the webcam the other day, it can't be anything compared to how he must look now. "I swear, if you hurt my dad—"

"Relax," Peter says, "as long as I have you – dead or alive – your precious father's fine. I have no need to kill him. Unless, of course, you require any additional motivation?"

Stiles glares at him, but that just seems to make Peter smile more, so he turns and glares in a different direction.

"Frisk him, make sure he's not got a cellphone on him," Peter commands, "and then we go."

Stiles opens his mouth to protest as three of the Omegas grab hold of him, pawing at him roughly. "Hey, my dignity –" he squawks, and flushes. "Totally gone. _Totally._ That's a bad touch, buster!"

"Can't touch the bag around his neck," one of them grunts to the other.

"Not big enough for a phone, though."

"How big are GPS chips?" the one with tattoos comments.

"I've got a GPS jammer," Peter sighs, waggling a device at them which Stiles tries to get a good glance at.

"Then he's clean."

Peter looks at Stiles, a considering look on his face, and Stiles squints back. There's still chance that Peter might know about the lodestones, and he definitely has to know Stiles has _some_ sort of plan; the pros of having Stiles must outweigh the cons.

"C'mon," one of the Omegas says, "we have a getaway vehicle."

Stiles gives the werewolf – their human face on now – a doubtful look but follows them. And tries not to glare at Peter too harshly.

Because the getaway van is a white van. With "FREE CANDY" spraypainted on the side.

"Seriously?" Stiles asks. " _Seriously_?"

Peter shrugs as he opens the driver-side door. "Would _you_ have guessed this was my ride?"

"Ugh," Stiles says. Both at Peter being right and at the state of the van.

One of the Omegas opens up the van, and thoughtfully tosses Stiles an old coat; it doesn't smell too bad, and he huddles himself into it before climbing into the back of the van, sighing inwardly about the potential irony if Peter changes his mind and kills them all here.

He huddles up at the very back, hugging his knees to his body, and warily eyes the Omegas as they huddle into the back.

"This isn't the worst ride we've had," one of them says, "do you remember that bus that night in Mansfield?"

"Remember it?" Harry exclaims. "I freakin' _drove_ it."

"Yeah," the original one says, "that was the _problem_."

"Hey— You wanna do something properly, you gotta do it yourself."

"See, mate, that's the problem—You and properly, there's like a whole continent between you and the concept. You'd need a jetplane to get anywhere _close_ to properly."

"Jetplanes fly upside down, y'know," one of the Omegas says, prompting another of them to tell him with precision exactly where he could stick his head.

Stiles shuts his eyes and lets them bicker over the top of him; there's no window to see out of, but maybe he can count the turns they make, try and figure out where Peter's taking them, but he loops around himself, and Stiles' poor recovering brain can't keep track of it as well as he was hoping to. When the van does finally stop, Peter has a bag of fast food in his hands which the Omegas gravitate to, looking hungry.

"The herbs have a lot of the same side-effects as cannabis," Peter says, as Stiles ungainly exits the van and looks around, blinking. He doesn't recognize the area, but it doesn't mean _no one_ will. As Peter's attention is on the Omegas, Stiles slips the lodestone from the pouch to the pocket of the coat; easier to slip it out and let it take a glance around.

Oh, please, please, _please_ let Scott realize he used the same trick as his mom did in the hospital. Load of idiots. _Lodestone._ His best friend can't send a text properly to save his life, but he's smart, _so_ smart, and his plans (now he's not relying on Stiles' half-baked ones) are quick-witted and resourceful.

 _C'mon, Scotty,_ Stiles thinks. "So they have the munchies?" Stiles says, out loud, sighing at the realization of why the journey had looped around – deviating to a drive through fast food place. "Don't suppose you got any curly fries?"

Peter gives him a look which says relatively clearly _you've made a choice that has you tightrope walking between life and death and you want curly fries?_

Stiles shrugs at him.

"Harry, be a dear and do save the emissary some fries," Peter grunts. The Omega with the floppy hair pauses, food half-shoved into his mouth, and he nods, dropping half-eaten fries on the ground with the movement.

Stiles would be disgusted, probably, if he hadn't seen Scott that time with the cherry pie.

The whole thing.

Stiles _still_ feels queasy at the mental image.

And he still can't eat cherries in any form.

"Come along," Peter says, and doesn't look back to see if Stiles is following; then again, Stiles has followed him this far. Stiles surreptitiously gets out the lodestone and flashes it around; he doesn't recognize the buildings at _all_. Worst comes to worse he can throw the stone, or drop it, and hope there's enough information.

He pockets it after they pass a row of buildings, and he's pretty much pinning all his hope on Scott having come quickly to the right conclusion. And Deaton knowing how to activate the central lodestone. And someone being able to recognize the buildings he's just flashed the stone at.

Why _the hell_ did Scott _ever_ let Stiles make the plans?

The building they approach is a large house – despite Peter's snark, Stiles was pretty much expecting a cave – and Stiles marvels at the idea of Peter picking suburbia until they enter the mostly empty house and Stiles sees the back view – the garden opens up onto the preserve.

There must have been a reason the Hale house was so far into those woods. Beacon Hills has been full of stories about the ghosts that haunt the preserve for as long as Stiles can remember. Only those ghosts were actually werewolves.

And most of Stiles ghosts have been hallucinations. He wonders if one of them in particular was the ghost. Something in that idea rings so true to him, mostly because what he _thought_ were ghosts were so contradictory.

Yeah, it's one of them, and one alone; now his body's starting to clear of the drugs, his brain can think clearer, but it's not helping. He thinks of the Nemeton, and their original theory; that the ghost is a spirit trapped inside, trying to use them to get free. In a way, the Nemeton is their actual, real life fault tree.

Stiles thinks sadly that both he and Derek probably picture his conceptual fault tree as just that – a pile of dangerous, terrifying roots. When really, they don't belong down there.

Stiles' mouth still tastes of blood.

They don't _both_ belong down there.

The roots are for Gerard. For Deucalion.

And for Peter.

Peter opens the back doors of the large sitting room, and the Omegas sprawl on the random pieces of furniture lying around, obviously scrounged from the side of the road from the diverse condition of the seats. "Make yourself at home," Peter says, mockingly spreading his arm and squinting in the direction of what looks to be the kitchen. "However much of one it is."

Stiles glances at him.

"You can't bond with my pack just standing there glaring judgmentally," Peter says, making shooing gestures with his hands in the direction of the five Omegas, who peer up almost _hopefully_ from their handfuls of junk food.

"Uh," Stiles says, "remind me again why I'm doing the bonding part? And not running away?"

"Um," Peter points out, " _to placate me._ In the hopes that your pathetic pack will come up with something marvelous to rescue you?"

"Right," Stiles says, weakly. "Yeah."

"And if you did run, how far do you think you'd get?"

"You might have a point."

"Relax, Stiles. You did the right thing coming with me," Peter says, clapping him on the shoulder. "If you hadn't, I was going to blow the whole hospital up." He smiles at Stiles, and saunters off, whistling under his breath.

Stiles stares after him.

"Bit of a loon, that one," one of the Omegas pipes up. He has blonde hair sticking up every which way, and what Stiles thinks is an Irish accent. Stiles jams his hands in the coat pocket and wanders over to him, tentatively. He needs to find out more about what's going on, if only so he doesn't die ignorant. "My name is—"

Stiles looks at him sourly. "You think I want to get to know you?"

"You're no picnic yourself, love," one of the boys says, pushing hair out of his eyes. "We have more class than needing to befriend some boy in a dress—"

"It's a hospital gown, dumbass," Stiles says. "As in I just had major surgery three days ago?" He gestures at his bandaged head.

"Sucks to be you," the boy with tattoos says, and offers out his bag. It's not curly fries – just regular fries – but it's better than nothing. Stiles snags a handful, and pulls up the only empty chair – an old dining room chair with missing spokes in the back.

"So," Stiles says. "Hi. Why the hell are you all doing what Peter Hale tells you to?"

"Could ask the same of you," Tattoos says, but quietly, like passive aggression is his thing.

"He has this herb stuff," the boy with the Irish accent says. "There were twelve of us, at the beginning. He promised we'd be a pack, if we stayed around long enough."

"And these herbs… definitely work?"

"If we don't do what he says, he dusts you with them, and bam." Irish claps his hands together to mimic an explosion. "Drooling monsters. It's like we're just managing to escape from one monster to fall in with another one."

"At least this one's promised us good things," one of the Omegas says.

"Yeah, Lou, whatever good a promise does," the fifth one adds.

Lou glares at him. "At least he doesn't hurt us. Not like Management did."

Stiles frowns. "Management?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "Kind of… we were alone, and then Management kind of… put us together."

"Like you were orphans," Stiles says.

"Exactly," Irish says, sharing an odd look with the other Omegas; there's something more to the story, but they're not willing to share yet. "We weren't working hard enough, weren't bringing enough money in, so one night, they—We were working in this bus—"

They'd mentioned a bus before, outside, Stiles thinks.

"And they brought this monster in," Lou says. "It was ranting something about how we'd be faster, stronger, able to do all the things Management wanted us to do. When we woke up—"

"We'd kind of ripped the monster apart between us," Irish says, unable to meet Stiles' eyes as he stares past him, into space. "We ran from Management, and—Your town, it just felt right."

"It felt like we were in the dark, and this town was a light shining from a long way away," Harry says, soft and dreamy.

"Like a beacon," Stiles says.

"Yeah," Lou says, excitedly. "Like the name of the town, right?"

"And then Peter picked us up, called us his lost boys," Irish says.

Stiles groans. The five look at him. "That's the worst pun I've ever heard. And people say _emissaries_ are melodramatic."

"Emissaries," Harry repeats. "That's what you are, right?"

"I am," Stiles says. "Or, I was learning to be." He looks down at the cut on his forearm.

"Oh, mate," Lou says. "Your feet are bleeding. Shit. I've got some spare trainers upstairs, gimme a sec—" He gets up, and heads over to the open door; Stiles can see a staircase beyond it.

"Trainers?" Stiles asks, tilting his head. "Oh, sneakers."

"Man, the difference between English English and American English is the _worst,_ " Irish says. "Like chips. I'm wanting hot grease and _bam,_ crisps in my mouth. Like _what_."

"Although Mexican food," Tattoos says, longingly crushing his paper bag, now devoid of fries. "Ah, Mexican food."

Stiles thinks sadly of Cora eating all of the Mexican food, _all_ of it, and that sadness must show on his face, because Irish comes over and pats him on the shoulder.

"C'mon, don't mope. There's five of us and one of him. You can still be in our pack when we kill Peter." Irish beams at him, like it's encouraging.

The idea of Peter dead kind of _is_ encouraging.

"Hope they're big enough," Lou hollers, skidding into the room and holding out some worn sneakers in Stiles' direction; although they're a little big, he gratefully puts them on. Then he looks out at the garden and the trees winding outside.

"How about you boys give me the local tour, eh?" Stiles asks, looking outside consideringly. "Wolves like to be outside, right?"

"We're not actually wolves, y'know," the fifth Omega says. Stiles doesn't have a name for this one, or a nickname that fits him. _Omega number five_ it is, then.

"He _knows_ ," Harry hisses. "You can't become an emissary to werewolves without _knowing werewolves exist_."

Scratch that, he's been hallucinating extra ghosts for weeks, he's voluntarily come with Peter to bond with his "lost boy" Omegas, he's fostering a possible crush on Derek Hale…

Crazy is a definite.

"And we were wolfed out in front of him," Tattoos points out.

"Aw, yeah," Omega number five says, scratching the back of his head. "I guess."

Harry opens the latch on the back door. "So here's our garden," he says, and leads the way out onto the grass. Stiles follows him, and he thinks the others are following him too; he surreptitiously picks up the lodestone again. Peter might recognize it as an artefact, but these five seem relatively new to being werewolves. He drops it into his palm, and holds out as much of it as he can risk.

"And these are the woods," Lou says, pointing at the trees. "Nothing too much out here."

"Peter takes us into the woods to train us, sometimes," Tattoos says. "Maybe when he gets back we can go again."

"Maybe not," Stiles says. "Some of my old pack might be out there, guarding the Nemeton."

He glances at their faces, looking for any hint of recognition.

"It's a cut-down tree," Stiles says, aiming for casual. "Big center for rituals. Peter's already sacrificed two powerful women on it. If he gets near it... and he kills one more person on it…"

"We should keep him away from that," Irish says in a low voice to the others.

There's an awkward silence, which is good – it means they're not getting on as well as they probably need to in order to 'bond' enough to give Peter power.

Well, they're not bonding well with Stiles, but the five of them... their body language is close. These five are already bonded as a pack, so much so that when there's no instruction they seem to move in one direction without thought.

It's Stiles that needs to hold out, to not get close to them.

"This place is better than that movie theater, at least," Stiles says, looking back at the house.

"Oh, we didn't live there," Lou says.

"Nah, just a day trip," Tattoos says.

Stiles frowns at them. "Why—"

"Because," Peter says, emerging from the house, hands in his pocket and coat flapping behind him, "I kept killing people at theaters to get your banshee's attention. And I planted the Omegas at the Senator to make Scott go there first _now_."

"Oh," Stiles says, his stomach sinking. "Because Scott would recognize these five too, and remember where he saw them." It's possible. The five of them are a much bigger clue than Stiles' one measly word. His faith in his friend wavers for a second, but just that long.

No. Scott might not order Stiles around, might not think of him as pack, but Scott is still his _brother._ At the end of the day, they're both human too. Well. Not technically. _Spiritually._

Whatever. It doesn't matter what species they are. Scott's his bro, and has his back.

It's just a matter of guessing _when_ the pack will find him.

"I've laid some other false trails as well, of course," Peter says. "It's too bad that it's going to take them weeks to find you. And then it'll be too late, obviously."

"For one of us, at least," Stiles says, jerking his head at the five Omegas, joking and pushing each other.

"They knew the odds coming in," Peter says. He glances over at the laughing Omegas and he says, slowly, "You don't have to be amongst the dead, Stiles. If you chose me _fully_ , instead of whatever weird scheme you think you have in your head."

"I don't have a weird scheme in my head," Stiles says, and wills himself to be believing it, because trusting Scott isn't _weird_.

Peter does look a little surprised. Obviously Stiles' heart didn't skip a beat.

"Wait," Stiles says, slowly, "why are you laying false trails _now_?"

"Smart," Peter says, "you're very smart. I hope whatever rescue plot you think's gonna happen works out for you." He pats Stiles on the shoulder, before pushing his hand in-between Stiles' shoulder blades and shoving none too gently. "It's a good thing Lou got you some shoes, we've got some walking to do." He grins up at the dark sky.

"Now?" Stiles asks weakly.

"Like I'd do something as melodramatic as waiting for a full moon," Peter says, shoving at Stiles. "Please, I'm not an amateur."

"I can _walk,_ " Stiles huffs, but Peter doesn't stop shoving him.

At first, Stiles thinks they're heading for the Nemeton, but that's a ridiculously bad idea; the pack know Peter needs one more sacrifice on the Nemeton to get access to more power. Stiles is freezing cold, and thankfully has his shivering to use as a cover for pulling out the lodestone again. He can only keep a little of it peeking out of his hand, but hopefully that should be enough to help the others recognize where Peter's leading them.

The Omegas seemed to have figured out that this is it – they're unusually quiet, exchanging glances, and Stiles' heart goes out to them a little despite himself, because he admires that drive for survival.

"Aren't you going to drug them up?" Stiles asks Peter quietly. "With your magic herbs?"

"I've drugged them enough," Peter says, in a tight voice.

"Or they're getting too powerful to be controlled," Stiles says, thinking about how Kyle said it was _Omegas_ that the herbs could work on. This part of the preserve is starting to look familiar, though. _Really_ familiar.

Suspicion starts to crawl into Stiles' gut.

The Hale house is in this area. Stiles is pretty sure. He spent some time as a younger teenager in the preserve, trying to dare himself to look inside the burned out remains. Back then, the Hale house wasn't a tragedy; it was a crime scene, it was part of his dad's mysterious world that Stiles wanted to know more about. Now it's a condemned wreck; a terrible memory blotted into the landscape. A transient reminder of the price of trusting the wrong person. Of blindly letting your family lead you into darkness without even trying to fight it.

He pockets the lodestone. Either it worked and Scott's on his way with the pack, or it didn't, and Stiles might be about to add to the Hale house's tally.

"Dude, this forest is rank," Irish murmurs, breaking the silence as they emerge onto a path that Stiles knows for _sure_ leads to the Hale house. "Like… what _is_ that smell?"

"Herbs," Omega number five says. "Definitely herbs. No wonder you don't like them."

"What do you mean?"

"He's referring to the fact you don't eat anything that hasn't been processed, fried, and possibly processed again," Lou says, helpfully.

"Slander," Irish sighs. "Terrible, terrible slander."

 _Basil,_ Stiles identifies, and success boils in his stomach like a jolt. _Lemon grass. You're overdoing it, Scott._

Peter looks at Stiles, a curious expression on his face, and Stiles averts his gaze, which seems to satisfy Peter. Yeah, let him think Stiles' heart is pounding from fear.

When they turn the corner, Stiles is surprised by the sight.

He was right about where Peter was taking them, but the Hale house is gone.

Just…

_Gone._

"It was condemned," Peter says, glancing back at Stiles as he heads over to the part which remains – just the wooden floor. The roof is gone, the windows are gone, the walls—"The county finished tearing it down this morning. I couldn't get to enough of it before."

"Oh," Stiles says, feeling a little weird at the sight. He knew it was being torn down, but he hadn't quite connected the dots, hadn't quite realized what it would look like. Somehow, the empty space is more of a blot on the landscape than the burned-out shell of the house.

The Hale house was a monument to so many lost lives, and it's gone.

But not in Derek's memories. Their deaths will live in his mind forever. Like his very own heart of darkness.

They've always had more in common than Stiles has wanted to realize.

"It's funny," Peter says. "You're all so obsessed with the Nemeton, but you never stopped and realized something…"

"Yeah?" Stiles says. The five Omegas had followed Peter up to the flat remains of the Hale house, but they pull to a stop in a semi-circle, as if finally realizing this might be the place of the promised show down.

"It's only roots," Peter says, stepping onto the darkened wooden floor that used to hold the Hale house. "But it used to be a whole tree. So where's the trunk?"

Stiles opens his mouth to respond, and then his mouth snaps shut as realization creeps in. Peter _couldn't get to enough of it before._ "You're standing on it," Stiles says; how his words are even coherent is a mystery in itself. "The Hale house is _made_ of the Nemeton trunk."

"Bingo," Peter says, smiling and spreading out his hands, his claws sliding out.

"And Kate," Stiles says, his voice feeling thick. "You already killed Kate on those floorboards."

Peter's smile widens.

"Slit my throat from side to side," Kate whispers at Stiles' side. "Spilled my blood _far and wide_."

"And seeing as you so obligingly became my emissary, Stiles," Peter says, "I can draw on that power now."

He closes his eyes, and keeps his arms spread, and tilts his head back; the moon isn't full, but it's still fairly heavy in the sky, casting Peter's face into light and sharp shadow.

"You could," Stiles says, a little unevenly, "except I'm kind of spent."

Peter's eyes open. "Ah, okay, here's whatever plan you think you have—"

"Not even really," Stiles says. " _You're_ the one who knows about sparks. Isn't that why you chased Derek out of town? Convinced him that Cora and he should get out? Run, run, as fast as you can? Because you knew Derek hadn't given _away_ his spark; he'd only used it up for a while."

"Yeah," Peter says. "My nephew might even figure out he's still an Alpha at some point. I don't see how it matters at this point."

"Because it's a simple concept," Stiles says. "Sparks for emissaries are the same as sparks for Alphas. Sometimes a spark dims and fades, and sometimes it grows back with time."

"A spark for an emissary is fuelled by belief," Peter says. " _Everyone_ knows that—"

"It's still power," Stiles says. "And even belief has a limit. It's why you're not an Alpha yet, even though you believe you should be – enough to have sent Omega werewolves out across town, killing people. Marking them up. Trying to reignite _your_ spark of power."

"Can you just quickly get to your point so I can get on with killing you?" Peter says, rolling his eyes.

"A spark's just like a battery," Stiles says. "You can spoon feed a spark power by killing… or you can kickstart it with another spark."

"So you're saying you'd kickstart _me_ ," Peter says, "when—"

"Nope," Stiles says. "I'm saying I can't, and you probably can't use me to channel the Nemeton power just yet. Because I'm used up for the moment."

Stiles pulls out his pouch of mountain ash.

"Ah, yes," Peter says, "a last ditch attempt to protect yourself. I can still draw on your power _through_ that. You don't have enough to trap us all, and if you put yourself in a circle, a werewolf can't get through. But something like a sharp branch? That can _absolutely_ get through. So—"

"It wouldn't work anyway," Stiles sighs, and pulls out a handful of the powder, and throws it.

He thinks of his first session with Deaton, using the mountain ash, and tries to replicate how he felt then. He thinks that these wolves are _not_ ones he wants to impress.

The ash falls like snow around him, covering him and a section of the woodland in mountain ash, uselessly.

The Omegas make a murmuring sound of interest.

"So you're running on low juice," Peter says. "I can wait."

"Yeah," Stiles says. "But you haven't asked the most important question."

And Stiles is risking himself here, probably, but he trusts Scott with his life. He _has_ to be here. The smell of the basil and lemongrass wouldn't be there otherwise, and Scott with his Alpha powers should be closer, because he can mask his smell.

Stiles wonders if Derek is out there too. If Derek even knows _how_ to mask his smell as an Alpha.

If Derek even _knows_ yet that Stiles kissed him to spark the dormant Alpha power still lurking inside him.

"I don't need to. Your power is _low_ ," Peter says, "but I can still use you as a conduit." He kneels down, and puts his palm flat on the floor, and Stiles feels a moment of despair, because maybe he's been too hopeful, maybe—

Or maybe that's just the darkness, coming to say hello.

In fact, it kind of looks like the darkness is crawling onto Peter's house, a shift of color, a slide of grey creeping into his skin, darker, and darker.

"Yeah," Peter says, "sorry, Stiles. I know you tried to use yourself up, but even a _weak-ass_ emissary is enough for what I need." He grins. "Why else did I think to find _you_?"

"You're a sweetheart," Stiles bitches.

"Things aren't looking good, sweetie," Kate whispers, and Stiles' gut tightens at the flash of her blonde hair in the corner of his vision. No, maybe not.

"By the way, I lied about the herbs," Peter says. "I put it in the boys' junk food earlier."

" _What_?" Irish blurts, but he's looking a little glassy-eyed now that Stiles is looking.

"I _ate_ some of that!" Stiles blurts out, and backs up a pace, but maybe it's not going to be enough, because the Omegas are looking his way.

"Give me a minute," Peter hisses, "and then rip him to pieces."

"You still didn't ask me," Stiles says, desperately, as Peter's face darkens and sags, and Stiles goes cold, because it reminds Stiles sharply of Scott's description of Deucalion, when his face twisted into the demon wolf. "What I used my power _on_."

"I don't even care," Peter says.

"You should," Derek says, eyes burning red as he steps out of the trees. This is his second dramatic entrance in a couple of days, and Stiles could _kiss_ him for it this time. Although he supposes he already did. "Because he used it on me."

He looks across at Stiles with an ambiguous expression, but then he nods slightly, and Stiles realizes that Scott explained to him about how sparks could bring an Alpha back their power, if it was only suppressed.

"How did you—" Peter starts, and then sighs. "It doesn't matter." He straightens. "The amount of power I have now, I can take out one Alpha." He smirks down at Derek, cool and cruel. "I was an _Omega_ when I took out the last Hale Alpha that crossed my path, after all."

The mention of Laura has Derek instantly wolfing out.

"Now, now, nephew," Peter says, his smile dimming a little. "Wouldn’t want to be killed so carelessly fast as sister Laura, now, would we? Boys, defend me, would you?"

Derek snarls, and moves to leap forward, but the Omegas leap towards him, claws out in unison; Derek turns and shoves something into Stiles' hands. "Protect yourself," he hisses, and leaps into the fray.

Stiles unwraps the object in his hand, pulling off the layers of brown paper it's been roughly wrapped in; it's a wooden bat. He sighs at the irony.

"Didn't you learn your lesson with wooden bats _last_ time you fought werewolves, Stiles?" Peter snarls, watching the fight from the small height of the wooden floor.

One of the Omegas breaks away – they all look alike in their wolf state – and comes at Stiles. His heart sinking, Stiles swings the bat, because at least he's going to go out _fighting_ if he has to die before Scott enters the fight.

"Should have brought your aluminum bat, it might have had more—" Peter starts.

And stops as the Omega hisses and stumbles back, smoke rising from his skin, and his face melting back to half-human.

"Sorry, Lou," Stiles says, gripping the bat tighter, and adjusting his weight, looking over to the other Omegas.

"Our family didn't just use the Nemeton trunk for the house," Derek manages to say, in amongst batting off the Omegas. "There were a few other things in the vault too."

"Was there more people to join this fight?" Stiles says. "Because the bat's useful, but I think we need back-up."

"I guess that means someone called for the cavalry," Scott yells out, running on all fours and barrelling straight into two of the Omegas fighting Derek.

"Oh, hell," Peter sighs, and drops down just in time to miss one of Allison's arrows. "Guess the gang's all together again." Instead of turning tail and running, though, he just shakes his new lumpy grey face and jumps effortlessly down from the house, heading straight for Scott.

Stiles' hands tighten on the baseball bat, and the air displaces around him as the twins and Isaac run in, yelling now that their appearance here isn't a secret; they're _loaded_ with the herbs, and Stiles wrinkles his nose – that smell has to be _killing_ their keen werewolf senses.

Only hopefully not literally, Stiles thinks, as the twins barrel wolfed-out at Peter from both sides, and Peter—just smashes them both away. Aw, crap. Demon wolf, _definitely._

Stiles bats at one of the Omegas as they come at him, and Stiles stumbles to one side from the recoil, ending up near Derek.

"Thanks for the bat," Stiles says.

"Thanks for the, uh, kiss start?" Derek says, sounding half-confused, but that's probably only fair considering the circumstances.

"Hoped the blood from licking my wound would be enough to connect more strongly to you than him," Stiles says, softly. "I'd rather be your emissary any day."

"A discussion for later, maybe," Derek says, as Tattoos tackles him to the ground. Stiles sighs, and smashes the bat into Tattoos' flailing legs; it's a shame, Tattoos shared his fries with him, he _liked_ Tattoos.

It doesn't stop him from hitting Tattoos twice.

"Look after the bat, it's my dad's," Derek manages, rolling Tattoos over and smashing him around the head; Tattoos still manages to wriggle out of that. Damn, those herbs really must do a number on Omega werewolf physiology. "He played for the Elephants."

"Dude, of course I will," Stiles says. He probably should protest that he has to learn this stuff about Derek in the middle of fighting off supernatural creatures, but 95% of his life is fighting off supernatural creatures; it's not like he can ask bad guys to maybe pause in their evil machinations for a few minutes so they can have a heart to heart.

"Hey, did you leave some for us?" Allison asks, and Stiles startles; he hadn't even noticed her come in, but there she is, with her dad and Lydia, and Lydia's holding a gun in _remarkably_ steady hands, and if Stiles thought he was in love with her, he was possibly wrong, but he still _loves_ her, because _damn._

The herbs have done something mad to the Omegas' power, though – even when Scott takes Omega number five down to the ground and slices deeply across his chest, number five still manages to kickback up to his feet and start fighting again, raining blows down on Scott's head. After this, they sorely need to get some fighting lessons.

Derek especially. Stiles sadly thinks back to all the other epic werewolf fights that he's had the dubious pleasure of viewing. He can't remember a single one where Derek won.

Super strength doesn't count for _too_ much of an advantage, Stiles guesses, when you don't have the training for it.

Chris Argent definitely has the training to back up his regular human-style strength; he's not actually carting a gun to this claw fight, though. Instead he has a bow and arrow. Allison had to learn it from somewhere, Stiles thinks, and didn't he shoot Scott in the arm once with an arrow? It's hard not to think fondly back on those days, in a weird way. Back when everything was so new, and a little less complicated.

The Omegas all have at least two arrows in them, and Chris only turned up to the battle about three seconds ago; the Argents are definitely talented.

Lydia's not a bad shot either, but from the way Lou just ducks into a roll when Lydia manages to shoot him, it's not wolfsbane bullets in her gun; maybe it's just regular bullets. He guesses it makes sense; Lydia's not going to accept bullets that she might misfire and poison her boyfriend with.

The twins should be doing better than they are, Stiles thinks, but he has to leap in and help them with Irish, swinging the bat at Irish's knees while they swipe at his flailing arms. They never regained their merging power after Jennifer snapped their combined neck; it's probably for the best, Stiles thinks, that dude was kinda ugly. Despite the three of them converging on him, Irish still skips away – but only for Isaac to hurl a tree branch into the side of his head.

Irish crashes to the ground.

"Sorry, dude," Stiles says, wrinkling his mouth apologetically. Irish had been really nice. And nearly 90% understandable, even _with_ his ridiculous Irish accent. He regrets his part in this moment of violence. Well. Just a little bit of it.

He turns to see who's next to fight, panting hard.

"The saddest part of all this is you think you're _winning,_ " Peter says, his voice cutting through the sounds of the fight like one of Allison's Chinese ring daggers – and Stiles looks up just in time for Peter to hold out his hands, and then the world's _gone._

Not literally. A flash of blue _light_ comes from Peter's hand, zooming towards him and for a terrible second the floor is gone from beneath Stiles' feet, and everything in him turns upside down, and the next thing he knows is he's on the ground, and it's like he's locked to it. Like he's suddenly twenty times his weight and he can't push himself up, and his fingers scrabble uselessly in the dirt.

Stiles looks up, uselessly, to see everyone's down on the ground. _Everyone._ Peter's the only one left standing, and he's standing there with one palm outstretched, and a giddy grin on his face.

"Look at you all," Peter crows, and he's near Stiles; he launches out and kicks Stiles in the stomach. Stars splinter through Stiles' vision, and he can't even push himself away. It's like the whole _sky_ is pushing down on him, keeping him locked to the ground. "So pathetic."

Stiles can't even twist his head to look, but he knows where Derek was in the fight before Peter did this _thing_ to them, and he knows Peter's going that way, and everything in Stiles burns with ice cold fear, because Derek's an Alpha again and it's Stiles' fault. It's Stiles' fault, and Peter's going to slit his throat, and take his power, and Derek's warm blood will fill this clearing, and it'll be Stiles' fault, all Stiles' fault; he'll be down in the roots, down far down in the roots of the fault tree, down amongst the bugs and Deucalion and Gerard and Peter. Down in the hell he belongs.

"Get to your _feet,_ " Victoria hisses, bending down low, and yeah, this is an awesome time to continue hallucinating, Stiles thinks.

Unless Victoria's been his ghost all along. She _had_ known about lodestones when Stiles hadn't. It's possible.

"Stop being a coward, and _get to your damn feet,_ " Victoria barks again.

"I've been waiting such a long time for this," Peter crows.

Stiles' eyes burn hot, and he's sorry, he's so so sorry, Derek's going to _die_ , and it's all Stiles' fault—and then they'll all die, because Peter won't suffer Stiles to live after this—and what will his dad do? Really, what—

There's a sharp snapping sound, and for a moment Stiles thinks it's Peter snapping Derek's neck, and then suddenly Stiles can move—he hurtles to his feet and spins just in time to see Derek snarling to _his_ feet and throwing himself at Peter, and Scott's joining in too, eyes blazing red.

And then Stiles sees the real source of the sharp sound.

His _dad_.

Oh, my god.

Stiles lets out a yell of surprise.

"I know you said wolfsbane bullets were good," Dad says to Chris, jogging up to join the fray, his gun held out. "But proper bullets seem to hurt plenty." He punctuates that by shooting at a frothing-at-the-mouth Harry. "I should feel worse about that," Dad notes, as Harry drops to the ground.

Peter lets out a howl, and there's a ripple in the air around him, and Scott and Derek are sent flying backwards, knocking bodily into Isaac and the twins, bringing them all down in a heap; Peter makes to raise his arm up, but he's targeted by a barrage of bullets and arrows that knock him back temporarily. He raises up his arm again, and this time Stiles ducks and rolls behind a tree, just in time for the blue light to slam out and smash them all to the ground again.

All of them but him.

Dammit, dammit.

Peter's laughing, the complete _lunatic._ In all senses of the word. Moon drunk power-hungry _crazy werewolf._ "You're just sitting ducks. I could hold you like this _all day._ " He hums a few bars of a tuneless song. "I could raze the whole town to the ground with the power of the Nemeton sacrifices," he says. "Burn you all like my family burned."

There's a thin sound, like Derek whimpering, and that's probably what it is, and Stiles _blisters_ with rage, because Derek's not going to die like this.

Not here.

Not with that reminder ringing in his ears.

He deserves more than that.

He deserves _better_ than that.

"We won't let you," Derek manages, his voice thin; the pressure's pushing down on their lungs this time.

It's killing them.

Peter's killing them, and he doesn't care.

He's _enjoying_ it. Stiles fingers curl into his palm, the nails cutting deep into the soft flesh of the heel.

There's only one person in the woods tonight who deserves death. And Stiles is the only one free enough to dole out that punishment right now.

He breathes in, slow and carefully, and breathes out, and thinks over the past few weeks. There has to be _something_ he's learned in all this mayhem to help him. Something he can use. Something he might have overlooked.

And there—That's when it hits Stiles, and he almost laughs at the absurdity of it, because as an emissary he's supposed to be overlooked by people. He just hadn't stopped to consider that the person overlooking him the most…

…would be himself.

Yeah, Stiles can do this. He can _totally_ do this. He's had the skills to do this _all along_.

"I'm going to take them all out," Peter says, slowly because he _can._ "This whole town turned a blind eye to the Argents. Let them get away with literal, fire-burning _murder_. I'm going to take them out."

"You won't," Scott hisses, low and strained.

"And who's even going to _stop_ me?" Peter demands.

Stiles steps out from behind his tree, and glares at Peter defiantly.

"I am."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

_“The mind of man is capable of anything—because everything is in it, all the past as well as the future.”_

**"Heart of Darkness" – Joseph Conrad**

Peter actually pauses to stare at Stiles in surprise. Now Stiles is out from behind the tree, he can see how bad this second attempt is. His friends are writhing against the mud, scrabbling in the dirt.

His _dad_ is down on the ground, fingers sinking into the mud, face twisted in pain.

Peter deserves _anything_ that Stiles can do to him. "What are you even going to do? _Talk_ to me to death?"

"Tempting," Stiles says, tilting his head to one side, and it's no wonder he makes a pathetic figure – he's still in a hospital gown, barely covered by a ragged coat and torn sneakers, in the middle of the woods, bandaged and bruised from the surgery, and not even a pouch of mountain ash to his name. "But I'm an emissary now."

"In _training_ ," Peter says. "Your little delaying tactics won't do you any good, there isn't any more cavalry to come—"

"I'm the Hale pack emissary," Stiles continues, tensing his jaw mulishly. "I _am_ the cavalry."

"Well, you're all _saved_ ," Peter says, rolling his eyes. "You have no weapon, Stiles. And you threw all your mountain ash away."

"And right there, you've made the cardinal mistake of messing with an emissary," Stiles says, and grins.

Peter frowns.

Derek looks up from the ground, smiling despite the blood and injuries criss-crossing his body. "You overlooked him," Derek says, simply.

Deaton's said different things about the mountain ash. Melodrama. Belief. Spark. _Imagination_.

Stiles stares down at the mountain ash still lying on the ground, and flexes his hands, and tries to shove all of the things together in his mind – he takes a deep breath, and drops to a crouch, punching the ground.

Stiles has only done this once before, in a cold alley with Lydia watching on, accidentally. With intent, it's even _better_. The ash shoots through the air at _speed,_ knocking Peter flat on his ass, settling in a perfect circle around him, and in true villainous tradition, he actually screams, a "NO!" that rises up from his belly, flaring into the sky. Peter hisses in the back of his throat, and pushes into a standing position, snarling – but the mountain ash circle seems to do something else to him, something Stiles hasn't expected.

It must sever the connection to the power, because blue light shines out of Peter's chest, burning out of where his heart would be, if he even has one. And Stiles' stomach lurches painfully, because it's the same blue energy that took them down to the ground, and it's all shooting straight from Peter – right into Derek.

"It's okay," Derek manages, his shocked face turning to Stiles. "It doesn't hurt." The blue light is bright, more brilliant than Peter's werewolf eye flash, brighter than the sky in daytime, and Stiles has to shield his eyes from the brightness of it. He can see Derek, illuminated into sharp angles, and he's not falling to the ground, and his breathing is just fine.

Derek's _absorbing_ all of Peter's power.

The beam of light fades, and then disappears, and Peter drops to his knees, muttering disconsolately about how unfair everything is, and Derek turns wide, surprised eyes to Stiles and he opens his palms. They're crackling with blue light, like little lightning bolts across his skin.

The connection seems to have been severed to all of them. Scott's the first to his feet, and he's already pulling out his phone and calling Deaton in a frantic tone.

The Omegas sink to the ground, letting Allison, Scott, Isaac and the twins easily subdue them. Allison takes hers out with what looks like Stiles' own Taser; Stiles makes the mental note for the millionth time not to mess with her, because _damn_.

"This looks like it _should_ hurt," Derek says, glancing between the energy crackling over his skin and Peter, cowered in the mud. _Right where he belongs,_ Stiles thinks, pleased with this part of the outcome if nothing else.

"Awesome," Peter says, "the Scooby Gang win the day again. How freaking _delightful._ " He spits blood out to one side, scowling at Derek and Stiles with undisguised loathing. "Guess you're gonna kill me again, huh, nephew?"

Derek tilts his head coolly. "I guess that depends on you," he says, and looks over to Scott.

"The circle's broken his connection to the Nemeton power," Scott says, still holding up his phone. "He won't be able to tap into it for a long time, and there's a ritual to renounce him formally as pack that we can do before then."

"So you're powerless," Derek tells Peter. Peter narrows his eyes, and doesn't answer.

"You gonna kill me?" Peter sneers. "Make sure I don't kill anymore?"

"We're not cold-blooded killers," Scott says.

"Unlike someone we could name," Lydia mutters.

"You've got a choice," Derek says, glaring down at his uncle.

"How generous," Peter hisses. "The hard way or the hard way."

"Leave Beacon Hills and don’t look back, and don't kill. _Ever_. Or we'll chase you down." Derek looks down at him, coldly.

"And my other choice?"

"I rip your throat out with my claws the way you did to Laura's," Derek says, flexing his claws, not looking away from his uncle.

"I thought you weren't a killer," Peter says, in a mocking tone.

"Choosing that option is harder than walking away," Derek says. The dancing blue light on his skin highlights the harshness of his expression. "If you hurt any of us – including Cora – _that's_ when you get the throat option. And I'd count defending my _family_ as warm-blooded killing. Anyone here want to contend the definition?"

There's cool silence, nothing but the wind travelling through the leaves.

Peter snarls. "I guess I _have_ no option, then." He looks disinterestedly at Stiles. "Break your little circle, _emissary_. I'm leaving."

"You promise not to harm us? Any of us?" Scott says, firmly, eyes flashing red. "You know the consequences if you do."

"I kill, I die, blah, blah, blah," Peter gestures, bored. "I've heard it before."

"Aiden, Ethan," Scott says, and gestures at Peter. "Run him out of town."

"With pleasure," Aiden says, baring his teeth.

Stiles looks across at Derek and Scott, who nod to say _go ahead_ , and he holds out a hand and thinks _break_. The ash circle breaks. Stiles thinks about Derek's penchant for dramatic entrances. _Go team melodrama_ , he thinks triumphantly as Peter huffs and steps over the broken line, hands spread wide as if to say _look, I'm going_.

Peter makes it further than Stiles thinks he will before lunging at Scott, probably feeling he's the easiest Alpha to try and outright steal the power, seeing as his Omega power-sucking hasn't exactly worked, but the movement just seals his death sentence. Derek's on him before Stiles can even blink, and Stiles makes sure to watch as Peter's throat is torn out by Derek's claws.

Peter's body spasms, and then tumbles lifeless to the ground.

Derek stumbles back, blood dripping from his claws onto the leaves below, and he looks a little regretful as he looks down at Peter's body, but his jaw tenses, and he says, softly, "He made his choice."

For a long moment there's silence. The moment is somber. They probably should celebrate this, and take the _win,_ but it just feels like everything's right back to the beginning. Here they are, stood in front of the Hale house, with Derek standing over his uncle's body, minutes after ripping his throat open.

No, it's wrong to think of this moment as a win. It's not uplifting. It's just messy and complicated and one more death to the Hale family tally.

They all take a moment to catch their breaths.

"So," Stiles says, glancing across at Derek. "Not that it's not a fetching look on you, but…"

Derek throws him a scandalized look.

"Deaton's got that covered," Scott says, hitting the speaker button on his phone.

"It has to go back into the wood," Deaton's voice says, tinny and tinged with an electronic buzz; it feels strange to hear his voice so artificially, contrasted against the dark and wild nature of the preserve. "You need to be in direct contact with the Nemeton and your emissary, Derek. Just until the light disappears. If you carry the excess energy for too long, you'll…" Deaton pauses. "It's not a good thing."

Derek shifts awkwardly on the spot. "My, uh, emissary…" Derek shoots Stiles a look, and Stiles glares back at him, bracing himself for an insult. "He should be in hospital."

"No arguments from me," Dad says gruffly, watching Derek warily, gun still in his hand although it's currently trained on the ground.

"I can wait," Stiles says, loudly.

"Good," Deaton says, and disconnects.

Derek looks _furious._ But as he's also covered in dancing blue light which looks almost _pretty,_ no one's going to take him seriously.

"Stiles," Dad says, trailing off in that ominous _you're in so much trouble_ way.

Stiles scowls at his dad. "You heard the vet, dad. Derek might _explode._ "

"I didn't hear him say that."

"It was strongly _implied,_ " Stiles argues.

Derek opens his mouth to say something else, but lightning sparks across his mouth, and he looks shocked, and then worried, and everyone around edges back surreptitiously a few paces.

Everyone but Stiles, but then, that kind of encapsulates his entire personality, right there.

"C'mon," Stiles says, and holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers. "He said direct contact." Stiles pauses. "Unless you want to snuggle?"

Derek makes this hilarious _sound,_ and takes Stiles' hand, yanking him over to the floor of his demolished house. He hesitates on the threshold, but grits his jaw and steps onto it; Stiles climbs up next to him, and—

Oh, that's kind of _nice._ The glow brightens on Derek's skin, and starts to slip downwards, spiralling over his body to start slowly flowing into the planks below.

"I need to sit down," Stiles says, and Derek scowls at him but complies, dropping them both down so they're sitting on the edge of what used to be the sitting room, legs dangling onto the dirt below; for a moment, Stiles can't help but watch the light filtering across Derek's skin, drifting to the wood beneath them. Deaton saves the day again. Stiles wonders if Scott's emissary is delighted by that, but then again, emotion's not Deaton's strong point.

Nor is it Derek's, but… Stiles is kinda willing to see if Derek's open to working more on that.

Derek keeps Stiles' hand folded in his, and turns his head towards the action still ongoing in front of them; they're a little too far away to hear properly.

"Dude," Stiles says, taking their joined hands and knocking them into Derek's side. Derek spares him a wary glance. "Translate for me. Use your Alpha mojo."

Derek huffs a little.

"Don't you _like_ being an Alpha?" Stiles asks. "Because I'm pretty sure you do. I remember at _least_ three occasions where you were all _I'm the Alpha_ with a smirk, and—"

"I can't tell you what's going on if you don't shut up," Derek says.

Oh. The werewolf has a point, Stiles guesses. He mimes zipping his mouth shut.

The Omegas are free now, shaking their heads as if freeing themselves from something physical.

"Scott's asking if the Omegas plan to cause trouble," Derek says. "Because there's been enough bloodshed."

"Has there _ever,_ " Stiles agrees vehemently. Derek shoots him a pointed look, and Stiles quails. Yes. Silence. He was supposed to be doing that. He _can_ do that. Silence and he can be totally best buds. Even despite the fact he wants to scream about the fact that Derek is holding his hand willingly.

Well. Not willingly. Mostly to get rid of the blue energy still whirling around his body. Okay, _entirely_ to get rid of the weird blue energy.

"The Omegas are whining now," Derek says. "Something about having a headache."

"From the drugs Peter was controlling them with," Stiles says.

"Your dad and Chris Argent are arguing about who should have them, because they're teenagers," Derek says. "Your dad wants to put them through the system."

"It's probably a good idea," Stiles says. He glances at Derek's profile, meaning to just check and see how the blue light is doing, if it's fading. His throat goes dry when he notices Derek's not looking out at the scene, but looking at him.

Maybe directly at his mouth.

 _Oh, my god._ Stiles is forever going to be grateful that it's beyond freezing out here, because otherwise, there would be embarrassing bodily functions galore, and his dad is only thirty meters away _max,_ sneaking accusatory glances in Stiles' direction like Stiles set this whole thing up.

Well. He kinda did.

"We really should get you back to the hospital," Derek says, his eyes guiltily flickering over Stiles' flimsy hospital gown.

Stiles thinks he might be blushing. Hopefully he can blame it on the cold air.

"What's going on now?" Stiles asks, gesturing. Derek's face turns back to the scene.

"Chris is saying that the boys are Omegas, and unless they're in a pack, trouble is unpreventable." Derek's face pinches. "They're protesting that they are. That because I—" His gaze flickers down, and his hand automatically tightens around Stiles', the emotion he's feeling automatically tensing his entire body.

"That because you killed Peter, you've inherited them," Stiles says, frowning. "I guess you break it, you bought it?"

Derek looks completely _pole-axed_ , and he shakes his head. Stiles tilts his head and stares at Derek, waiting for his response to this.

"No," Derek says, and the Omegas must be listening in, because they look instantly crestfallen; the five of them huddle together, looking harmless and lost and _desperate._ Stiles' heart hurts for them.

"What do you mean no?" Stiles blinks. "We can handle two packs in Beacon Hills. It's not like we're going to be all bitch-fights and legal battles about territory."

"That's not—" Derek says, eloquently.

Stiles sighs. "Then what _is_ it?"

"How can I—" Derek stares at the nervous looking huddle of Omegas. "I'd just be making the same mistakes all over again."

"What do you—" Stiles starts.

Derek looks at him stupidly for a moment, and then shakes his head a little. "I mean… _Twice._ It's happened twice. I've left Beacon Hills – with my sister – after my girlfriend turned out to be a psychotic murderer, _twice_. Leaving behind Peter. _Twice_. And now I get to be an Alpha, and have a pack – for the second time? And the things I've done—"

"Hey—" Stiles starts.

"I know you have that whole _fault tree_ thing, but—"

"No buts," Stiles says, and because it's him and he can't change, he lets his gaze deliberately, provocatively drop backwards to Derek's rear. "Well, at least one butt, _damn_."

"Stiles—" Derek sighs.

Stiles reluctantly lifts his gaze up. "You're not the only fuck up in town, buster."

Derek's jaw tenses. "Show me the other person _here_ who's killed the majority of their own _family_ just by—"

"I'm kinda sitting right next to you, dude," Stiles says, and his mouth downturns reluctantly, but maybe… Maybe Derek deserves to know he's not alone. He looks up. "Do you think the others are listening to us?"

"They're—" Derek squints at the others. "I guess not. They seem to be dividing up to take the Omegas into town. Scott seems to think me having a pack is an excellent plan." Derek's expression is sour, like he's wondering why he ever even wanted Scott in his own pack. His forehead furrows further. "I don't even understand why you would think—"

And yeah, Derek's trying to use his words, which Stiles should really encourage, but he cuts him off to say, "I'm trying to tell you what the ghosts have been teasing me with since they showed up."

Derek frowns, like Stiles is speaking another language.

"I killed my mom," Stiles says.

Derek shakes his head. "We were never told specific diagnoses, but I remember the nurses talking about your mom. She was—I mean, that's a hereditary thing—You don't have control over—"

"No," Stiles says, and he takes a deep breath, and looks Derek in the eyes. He's never said this out loud to anyone but his dad and the officer who dealt with the case and the hospital board who dealt with the inquest. "No, but sometimes when someone's in that much pain, they ask for help. To end it."

Stiles' breathing stutters, and not just for how it feels to be finally saying this to someone else. Someone who might understand, and not just pity him. Not just remind him how shameful it was to have fallen for his mother's request so blindly. And then his breathing stutters for another reason, because Derek pulls his hand out of Stiles'. The blue light shimmering over Derek's body brightens for a moment, and then dims again as Derek lightly, tentatively slides his arm around Stiles' waist, tugging him closer so their sides touch.

Stiles looks down at the dark, damp wood, and he's not sure, but it seems like the closer contact is draining the energy more quickly than just the hand-holding. Even if that's just his imagination, the warmth of Derek's body against his is welcoming. It makes Stiles feel more grounded, enough to continue.

"They ruled it as malpractice in the end," Stiles says. "Because the nurse on duty shouldn't have left a kid alone long enough. Not when it's so easy to hold a line, just for long enough, just—"

Derek stares at him, because Stiles can't finish a sentence. This is Stiles _not talking._ Stiles swallows, overwhelmed by the intensity of his look.

"Gonna tell me it's not my fault?" Stiles says, swallowing past the lump in his throat because this _matters_. "Gonna tell me how it's not my fault that a woman I loved, a woman I trusted more than anything used me? Because I kinda gotta tell you, I don’t take hypocrisy well, buster."

"I—" Derek's mouth works silently, and he shakes his head.

There's silence for a while. Derek doesn't give him a running commentary of what the rest of them are doing, so Stiles has to make it up for himself. Lydia, Isaac and the twins are leaving the scene, but Allison's hanging around with Scott, picking up arrows from the ground, while Dad and Chris Argent argue over the five omegas.

"Gotta admit," Derek says; his tone is conversational, but it's forced. Much too forced. "When I saw those photographs, I probably had the same reaction as everyone."

" _What the freaking bejeezus hell?_ " Stiles offers.

"I was _conflicted,_ " Derek corrects. "And my first thought was no _way_ do we look like that—it's another manipulation—and then I remembered."

Stiles' heart is thumping a little too loudly, and he wishes he could shut it up, because Derek has to know— _has_ to be able to read him like a _book_. This close to him, Derek can probably feel Stiles' heart like it's his own.

"How I never thought to message anyone but you," Derek says.

It sounds like a confession of some sort, and Stiles, once upon a time, would have pushed. Pushed and prodded and made Derek clarify what he's saying, but…

They have time. Time to figure out what this thing between them is. Time to figure out if the thing between them is something Jennifer created on her own, or something she's been able to take from them, or something else entirely.

Not giving themselves the time to find out exactly is what would give her the win, and she already took more than enough.

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Yeah." Derek gives this soft sort of nod, which seems grateful. They're on the same page, which is a start, and the rest will come – or not – with time.

Time's the missing ingredient to a lot of things.

And maybe it's the missing ingredient to something amazing.

Stiles can wait for that.

Maybe.

For a certain amount of time.

He's only human, after all.

"So," Derek says, when it's clear Stiles is starting to give him a little of the time they need right now, "the fault tree."

"Ah, yes," Stiles says.

"How far up the fault tree do you think we can compromise on? When it comes to where we belong?" Derek asks, scanning the horizon as if he's expecting something else to come at them. Well, it's not like their history would point out that it's impossible.

"Not the roots," Stiles says. "We are totally root cellar free people as of this year. It's in my family code."

"I'm not too fond of root cellars myself," Derek admits.

There's silence between them again, but it's almost companionable.

"You should consider taking the Omegas on," Stiles says. "They're good people when they're not off their face on magic drugs. We'll kind of be the most fucked up pack on the west coast," Stiles says, and, bravely, leans in a little closer, close enough that he can feel Derek's breath on his cheek. "That means we can only have a good jumping off point. Things can only get better?"

Derek's looking at the Omegas longingly now, but it's not them Stiles is looking at – something else entirely has his attention: Boyd and Erica, standing alongside the five Omegas, looking pleading.

Stiles' breath catches in his throat, and it takes Derek's hand briefly brushing his elbow to bring him out of it. Startled, both by the gesture and the way it thrums up his spine, Stiles looks at Derek with a wide-eyed expression.

"Just—" Stiles gestures with his spare hand. "Hallucinating. Ain't no big deal."

Derek frowns as Stiles beams up innocently at him. He has to, because if he _thinks_ about not-smiling, he generally thinks about things he shouldn't be smiling about, and one of those things is definitely worrying about which of his ghosts is the _evil_ ghost.

Which of them are his subconscious, and which is the evil soul trying to lure him into helping them open the Nemeton up further?

"I'm tied to the Hale pack no matter what," Stiles says, tipping his cut arm forwards again in illustration. "But I'm also tied to Scott. There's no reason two full packs can't work in Beacon Hills. Not with me as the bridge over troubled waters."

"But—" Derek's resolve is breaking, and Stiles tampers down the victory dance he wants to make, because he can wear _anyone_ down with his stubbornness. Well, he can when he's right, and Stiles _feels_ it rather than knows it…

This is right.

"How am I _not_ going to end up—" Derek starts. And then he lowers his head. "Scott's coming over. We should—"

Oh, Stiles isn't stopping now. Besides, Scott will have been listening in. Stiles isn't so sure how he feels about that. Relief, maybe. One less burden to carry.

"You're not going to repeat history because you've got _me_ , dumbass," Stiles says, stubbornly finishing even though Scott's clearly listening in now. "And blasé overconfident mad-flirting _aside,_ you must have learned something. Because this time?" He points over at the members of the pack still lounging around. _Scott's_ pack. Which maybe _isn't_ his, after all, but it doesn't stop Scott being important. Being _family_. Then he points at Scott himself, ambling closer. "You are _not alone_."

"He's right, y'know," Scott says as he draws up close. "And we happen to be kind of like limpets. I mean, Stiles can't get rid of me no matter how many song titles he uses when he's trying to make inspirational speeches." His gaze is assessing as he looks at them, but whether he's judging the magic running into the wood, or Derek's arm around Stiles, Stiles doesn't know.

" _What_?" Stiles bitches. "My words are highly original! I—" He flushes and kicks at the wooden floor, wishing it was warmer. His butt's getting cold. "Dammit, Scott, I'm trying to be an emissary! They do all the cool clichés and enigmatic bullshit! Song titles are the best you're gonna get for now." He gives Scott a vindictive glare. " _You know I'm no good_."

"Oh, my god," Scott says.

"You _can't bring me down._ "

"He's totally yours," Scott says, "I don't care even if we magically find some way to redo the emissary bond ceremony thing, he is _all yours_."

" _Nobody does it better,_ " Stiles vindictively continues, mostly because he's peeved he's been busted, but in part because Scott's bantering with him like normal – his secret about his mom hasn't broken them, which is such a relief.

"Anyway," Stiles says, firmly. "Staying. You should think about it."

Derek looks down, like Stiles might break if he breathes wrong. Stiles shakes his head. Derek smiles ruefully, a small smile, barely big enough for Stiles to see, but he sees it.

"I guess I have something to stay for," Derek allows, looking at the Omegas with a different expression, one with a little less scowl in it. "Especially because a pack with just an Alpha and an emissary would be rather sucky."

"Excuse _you_ , a pack with just me in it would be _awe_ some," Stiles says, sing-songing the last word, drawing it out. It's all false bravery, especially because now he has to live in a world where his friends know what he's done, but… maybe he can fake it until they make it. He wants to. He's surprised by how much he wants this to work. "Don't even front, you want the British werewolves for the _delicious irony._ "

"Irony?"

"You lost one of your American Werewolves to London, and now you get British Werewolves in California? I'm sorry, you couldn't even _make_ this shit up. Except on tumblr. Tumblr could make this shit up. Backwards. In its _sleep_."

"I think I'm gonna leave you two to this," Scott says, starting to back up. "But protip for your new emissary. He needs nightblogging rehab. Stat."

"Forget all I have ever said about two packs co-existing peacefully," Stiles says, casually flipping Scott a friendly, good-natured middle finger as his best friend heads back over to the Omegas. "The Hale pack is taking the McCall pack _down_."

Derek still looks torn and indecisive. "They'll need training," he says.

"We can handle it," Stiles says, confidently.

Derek's slow smile is confused but genuine. "Okay," he says, and Stiles grins. It feels _right_ for Derek to be saying this.

Derek's _okay_ does one more thing too.

Erica and Boyd's ghost smile softly at Stiles, and then disappear.

"Oh," Stiles says, stupidly. Derek quirks a look at him, and nudges him with his shoulder. "It's just… My hallucinations faded."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Derek squints down at him.

Stiles shrugs. "Speaking of good things," he says, feeling a little brave, because Derek's hand is still curled around his hip, and his thumb is travelling a slow, short path against the flimsy material of the hospital gown, and he'd have stuck to holding hands if there wasn't—If this wasn't—

Yeah, okay, Derek and he need time, but Stiles is kinda impatient.

Scratch that. He's almost _completely_ impatient.

Well, it's not like Derek doesn't have any idea of what Stiles is like by now; he hasn't run away screaming yet, even though he probably can – the blue light's nearly gone now, no trace of it in the damp, cold floorboards beneath them.

"Deaton just said close contact, he didn't say _how_ close we needed to be." Stiles waggles his eyebrows a little.

Derek huffs. "I hardly think— Your dad's just—" he starts, and the light's low, but Stiles is totally not imagining the color creeping in to his cheeks. "I can pull back," he says, and punctuates how serious he is by _not moving back even slightly._

"Hmm," Stiles says, glancing out at where his dad and Chris seem to be having an interesting discussion, complete with weapon posturing and arm waving.

"How close were you even suggesting?" Derek says, and his voice is a little strained, and when Stiles looks back up at him, Derek's eyes flitter over Stiles' face, like he's something to decipher. "Because you don't think your plans through."

"I totally do," Stiles says. "All the way through to the middle?"

"Wanting an Alpha closer to you is a dangerous thing," Derek says, and he turns his body a little, and brings his right hand up to Stiles' cheek; the knuckle of his first hand grazes the soft skin reverently, like Stiles is something to be looked after. Then the tip of Derek's thumb digs into Stiles' jawline, tips his head back a little. Derek's eyes fix on Stiles'. "Especially one who's glowing."

"Not so much now," Stiles says, and curses his mouth, because Derek startles, and drops his hand, looking down.

"You're right," Derek murmurs. He frowns, and gets to his feet, effortlessly pulling Stiles up with him; he's still tugging Stiles to his side, though. "No light. We can go."

"Oh," Stiles says, disappointed, because Derek's going to pull away, and he's not going to lie to himself. He liked it. He liked Derek being there a _lot._ He should be exhausted – he _is_ exhausted – but he's never felt more awake at the same time. Like maybe _he's_ absorbed all the magic, not the wooden floors of the Hale house. And Derek does pull away, Stiles feeling the loss keenly, but just for a second; Derek's hand slips down and takes Stiles' in a firm grip. Derek looks determinedly away from Stiles, his expression reckless and powerful, like he'll defy anyone who tries to question why he still has Stiles' hand in his.

Their first step down from the wooden floor is tentative, and even though he's disappointed at the lack of an excuse to maybe convince Derek it would go faster if they snuggled, Stiles does grin at the success, even if he has to keep his gaze averted from Peter's bloodied, lifeless corpse to keep hold of his good mood.

"Ah," Dad says, as they walk up. His gaze goes straight to their joined hands. Stiles' flushes automatically, and behind Dad, Scott grins, like this is all Stiles' fault. Eh, it probably is. "I need to get these five to the department to process them into the foster system, but apparently they need their Alpha's permission."

"Uh," Derek says, eloquently.

The Omegas look past Dad to stare at Derek and Stiles questioningly. Derek freezes for a second, obviously overwhelmed at having this power again. Of the huge possibility of fucking it all up, yet again. Stiles nods at him encouragingly.

"Go with him," Derek commands, looking up from Stiles for a moment, and the Omegas nod in an almost practised unison.

"Oh, god, I'm so glad everything's _over,_ " Allison says, clapping her hands together. "I need sleep, and icecream, and—"

Chris chuckles. That… is not a reassuring sound from him. Allison's gleeful expression falters.

"The only thing _you_ will be doing when I get back is tracking down the incubus," Chris says, wagging his finger at her.

Allison sags. "I know other teenagers get chores to do, but mine are so _weird_." She kicks at the ground moodily.

Scott wrinkles his mouth. "Sometimes I have to dress up as an elf for my mom at the hospital when it's Christmas?"

Allison stares at him.

"It's kinda adorable," Stiles says in a mock stage-whisper.

" _I'd_ take you for ice cream," Irish says. Chris' head whips in his direction, and Irish's face falls.

"This way, you lot," Chris says, jerking his head. The Omegas smile sheepishly at Stiles and Derek, and trudge off to follow Chris; Irish makes a _call me_ gesture at Allison, and Allison laughs and shakes her head.

"I'm going to count this as a good thing," Stiles says. "Um. Although—"

"Although _what_?" Derek glares at Stiles.

"The Omegas did plot to kill their last Alpha," Stiles says.

Derek glances heavenwards, and mutters something under his breath that only Stiles and the werewolves can hear. Even though it's a very creative death threat, Stiles can't help the grin. He's pretty sure the Omegas won't try and kill Derek.

Well. Mostly sure.

Maybe seventy per cent sure.

Yeah, Stiles doesn't think his plans through. But… that's what friends are for, Stiles thinks, glancing fondly at Scott.

"I'll call Deaton again," Scott says, gesturing at Peter's body. "Hopefully he knows some way of—" He squints. "Making sure he doesn't come _back_?"

"Lydia will like that," Allison says, approvingly patting him on the shoulder. "Good plan."

"We parked up on the main road, I'll wait for you in the cruiser," Dad says, and he attempts a reassuring smile in Stiles' direction before he strides off, but it's strained, and he can't quite meet Stiles' eyes, and something inside of Stiles quietly withers – right up until the point that Derek's hand squeezes his, and Stiles looks up at him, startled.

"It's a lot to take in," Derek murmurs. "He nearly lost you. Repeatedly. It's a hard thing to take."

Stiles blinks, and blinks again, because the way that sounds—

He's probably taking too much comfort in the way it sounds.

"We'll be fine," Stiles murmurs. "We'll be good."

"Your _hallucinations going_ sounds good," Derek prompts. Stiles blinks, and then looks at him sheepishly.

"Yeah," Stiles says, "I guess it's a good thing." He rubs at the back of his neck. Everything hurts. The hospital's suddenly seeming like a _nice_ idea. Derek sighs, and shifts his hand to Stiles' wrist, and Stiles looked at him shocked until a black line courses up his arm. "Ooh. Handy. Way better than morphine."

"No, you can't pimp me out," Derek says.

Stiles' mouth falls open as the black lines fade from Derek's arm with the intensity of Stiles' pain, and it stays open with disappointment as it looks like Derek's going to pull back fully, but then Derek's jaw tenses and he takes Stiles' hand again, and Stiles manages to hold back the victory dance. " _Would_ I?"

Derek narrows his eyes. "You have history, _primo_."

"You did look good in that orange and blue shirt," Stiles says, somewhat dreamily.

"And the fact you think that is a reminder you aren't well. C'mon," Derek says, and it's tentative and stilted, but he raises his thumb to Stiles' forehead, brushing over the surface, barely touching the covered wound. "We need to get you back to the hospital."

"It's my favorite place in the world," Stiles grouches, but when Derek offers him an arm, he leans his weight against it, and they start to move through the woods, towards the main road.

"So with the hallucinations gone…" Stiles sighs. "I'll have to face up to which one _is_ my ghost."

"And that sucks," Scott says, moving in closer. "Harold's a bitch. He's already trying to get me to challenge Derek. For _what_ damn territory, I wanna know. Hey Derek, wanna fight over who gets the Dairy Queen? We can thumb war, it's less messy when Stiles isn't playing it."

" _Hey,_ " Stiles protests, but thinks about their seventh grade thumb war misadventure. "You sadly have a point, McCall."

"I'll think about it and pencil you in," Derek says.

"My ghost's fun too," Allison says, grouchily. She looks at Derek warily. "You know how much of a picnic my aunt is. She was cheering me on to kill Peter before you got there."

Derek glances at her sideways. "She always did have her amazing moments," he says, and it's quite stiff, but it's _actual words_ about Kate Argent, which is kind of a miracle in itself. "I'm sorry—" he starts.

"Don't _even,_ " Allison says, fiercely. "That was them, and this is us. We're not them. We're not the sucky people of our past. We're _us_."

"You make very elegant speeches," Stiles says, approvingly.

"I'm a better orator in French," Allison says.

Scott makes a suspicious noise in the back of his throat.

"It means a skilled public speaker," Stiles tells him. "You need to re-subscribe to your word-a-day emails."

Scott sighs.

"And you can google how to figure out our astral crap while you're at it," Stiles says. "Do you think there's a maid service for supernatural events? We could really do with cleaning up some of the mess around here. Clean up some of our messes. Such as… finding out who my ghost even _is_."

"Deaton says we can start to learn to block the ghosts out," Scott offers. "So it doesn't matter _who_ it is."

"Yeah," Stiles says, softly. Derek's hand is still tight in his own. Yeah, they're going to be fine. "Yeah," he agrees.

"We will talk later about you-know-what, though," Derek says. Stiles gives him a disbelieving expression, and Derek looks away and huffs one of his _why do I even try_ sighs, but then he looks back at Stiles, serious and intent. "I know a little bit about blaming yourself for something that—that no one in their right mind would blame you for," Derek says, his voice thick.

Stiles ducks his head, something inside him warming, and he looks out of the side of his eyes at Derek. "Is this you finally willing to work on the fact that your family's murder wasn't your fault?"

Derek makes an incoherent sound, and he tenses his jaw. "I might be willing to work on it if you are."

Stiles makes an uncommitted sound in answer.

Derek lets go of his hand, but it's okay; Stiles has a little more strength in his legs now most of the terror is over. They walk in silence, and Scott and Allison move ahead, chatting amiably, and Stiles is selfishly glad for the space. Mostly because it gives him a little time to analyze the thrum under his skin that seems attuned to wherever Derek is.

Their connection as emissary and Alpha, Stiles tries to reason, but there's a warm weight in his chest counteracting the darkness; a weight that suggests that despite his denial, there's a lot more there than a pack bond. He remembers the kiss that tasted of blood. They've got a lot to work on.

Maybe it'll be worth it, though, Stiles thinks, heart thumping as he glances at Derek's profile. Just maybe.

The cruiser's at the far end, just at the junction to the main road – it's one Stiles knows well, because it's the junction that takes you either to the library or the hospital, and alas Stiles seems to visit the latter more than the former.

Not that Beacon Hills County Library has any decent books in it, but Stiles used to be quite fond of its two bookcase horror section. Now he's _living_ his own horror novel, Stiles kind of leaves that whole genre alone, unless he wants to feel superior about something, and then he reads all the werewolf novels and cackles over how wrong they are.

Derek makes a sound in the back of his throat, and Stiles looks up questioningly. Derek wrinkles his nose, and then shrugs tightly. "I just. Road memorials kinda wig me out."

Stiles peeks around Derek to see his dad nodding respectfully at a memorial stationed near the cruiser before opening up the car; there's a bundle of flowers tied to a tree, a bedraggled teddy bear poking out, but he can't see that far to pick out a name.

"I like them," Stiles says. "It's nice for people to remember the dead fondly. I think it's better than forgetting them." He frowns. "I mean. The whole ghost thing was _bad_ , but it could have been worse. In the weirdest way, it was—It was _nice_ to see Erica again. I kinda hope she's the one, y'know?"

Derek doesn't respond, mostly because it looks like he can't; his throat trembles, and his eyes dart to the horizon, looking hard up into the sky, and Stiles knows that move. Repressing tears. Losing a member of the pack is like losing a limb, Cora said, and Derek keeps losing limbs, over and over. Stiles burns with that thought, and stretches out blindly, somehow managing to find Derek's hand again; Derek takes his fingers and holds on tightly, even without looking at him.

"All she wanted was to grow up," Derek says, "all she wanted was to be a teen, and I—"

"Hey," Stiles says, and firmer, " _hey_. We are not at the root of the fault tree, remember? Now I'd love it if we could aim for the canopy, but I'll settle for the trunk."

"You shouldn't even be in the tree," Derek says, and looks down at Stiles, eyes skirting over Stiles' face like Stiles is a book he can read to divine meaning from.

"An argument for later," Stiles says. "Mostly because I intend to win it and be well enough to do a victory dance."

Derek squints, and tugs at Stiles a little. "C'mon."

Stiles makes a sad little noise, because he doesn't want to go back to the hospital. He wants to go home. And maybe convince Derek that cuddling would be a good thing to try.

"We need to get you well enough so that you can hideously physically embarrass yourself," Derek continues.

"Alas, business as usual, you mean," Stiles bemoans, but he lets Derek tug him towards the cruiser, because it's cold, and his head wound is starting to ache. "The doc said I might still hallucinate, for the next couple of weeks," Stiles says. "So I might never know who my ghost even _was_. I've been racking my poor, surgery-stabbed brain—"

Derek makes a sound of disapproval at his graphic description.

"—and I can't decide on who it was," Stiles says. "Allison had her Aunt giving her bad instructions. Scott had Harold telling him to kill himself. And my ghosts spent their whole time contradicting each other—" He shrugs helplessly. "I dunno."

"This isn't something you need to psychoanalyse," Derek says. "Supernatural freakiness can sometimes be put down to _supernatural stuff is freaky_."

"Look at you being all technical and shit," Stiles says, approvingly, "why don't you—"

But he forgets what he was going to say, the instant he comes close enough to the memorial.

"Why don't I what?" Derek asks. Stiles' dad leans over to open the window of the car, presumably to shout them to get in.

 _My dear baby,_ the top note of the memorial reads, and Stiles' eyes fill with water, blurring the words. _It's been four weeks since you've gone, and I can't believe it._

"Sad, isn't it?" Dad says. "Wasn't she at school with you, Stiles?"

_Harley Sutherland, aged 17._

There's a photo of her in a McDonald's uniform.

"Stiles?" Derek's voice drops half an octave into its more worried register. "Stiles?"

"She—" Stiles says, and it's like the whole world goes dark and cold; his spine feels like ice, and his skin crawls. "She—"

Scott and Allison are only a little distance away, but they seem far away, and the trees in the preserve rise up from the ground like hands, reaching to blot out the sky. In amongst the foliage, there's a blur of movement, a wisp of a shadow, and she's there.

Staring at him.

Peter's fake Alpha mark clawed into her forehead.

 _Harley_.

Standing in front of him in torn, damaged clothes, barely ten paces away.

But she's not really there.

Four weeks. _Four weeks._

And this is the road, the road between the hospital and the library. The first body, that Saturday, that his dad told him about. It was _Harley_.

She must have been dead even the first time, when Stiles saw her on the bus.

There's a weight around Stiles that he barely registers, Derek's arm holding him up, but nothing feels real. This is like the drugs before surgery all over again, but worse. Darker. Like his dark heart has crawled out of his throat to color the world in stark fear.

Erica was his first ghost, but she'd appeared and disappeared in a way none of the other ghosts had since.

Harley, on the bus, was there too. She was mean to him. She was mean, and Stiles thought he had apologized to her, he thought he'd fixed their friendship, and she's dead, she's not actually—he won't ever get to apologize to her—and Stiles' throat is burning; maybe the high-pitch sound echoing through the trees is his own.

He thinks about when he pulled the stop cord for her, and the dirty looks he got. It makes horrible, terrible sense. The bus passengers saw him stop the bus for someone who wasn't even there. They'll have thought he was just being _rude._ Stiles' stomach rolls, and he has to swallow hard to stop himself from throwing up.

Harley stares at him in the darkness, and smiles, and smiles.

"But you—" Stiles blurts out, shaken. "I did—"

"Scott and Allison fought me, in the forms I came to them," Harley says, and her smile is slow and even and cruel. "And I didn't even have to compel you, Stiles."

She moves in the instant, in half of a breath; her face is close to his, and Stiles is frozen.

"You did nearly everything that I _wanted_ without having to convince you to do a _thing_ ," Harley hisses. "You're the only one that didn't need the darkness in their heart."

Stiles closes his eyes, pushes them shut, squeezes them so tight his head pulses with it.

" _Because your heart was already as black as they come,_ " Harley croons, her voice like a blade of ice slashing across his throat.

"Stiles," Derek says, his voice cutting through the terror like a knife. Like a _claw_. "Snap out of it. _Please_." There's a hand on Stiles' face, warm and compelling, and Stiles opens his eyes – it's Derek's face close to his now, eyes wide with worry.

"Harley was the ghost," Stiles says, the words running together, his heart beating rapidly, "it was Harley, it was _Harley_ —"

There are more hands on him now – his dad's familiar weight, and Scott's worried pinch at his neck, and Allison's hand on his elbow, supporting him. Keeping him upright. Anchoring him to reality, and Stiles needs it.

Because he can't stop looking into the trees, where Harley stands, a cruel smile on her face.

"Thank you for your help, Stiles," she says, flickering into the shadows, sparking between light and dark, and Stiles has to turn his face away, his eyes burning from the sight.

"What just happened?" Dad asks, his voice equal measures of bewildered and _I will fuck shit up for hurting my son_.

Derek says something low and reassuring, and Dad's tense grip lightens up a little; Stiles is grateful for his words, whatever they were.

"It was just a nightmare," Stiles says, and he forces a smile as he convinces them to get him in the car, and get him back to the hospital. Derek takes his hand again, and doesn't let go; Stiles melts into that, leans on it more than he should.

More than he deserves. As his dad guns the engine and they drive away, Harley's cruel smile follows them.

It follows Stiles longer than that. It follows him into his nightmares for the longest time, long after the ghosts are gone. It settles into his bones like it's part of him, like his moles, and his oppositional disorder, like his dark, ugly heart. Like his devotion to the people he loves; Scott, his dad, and apparently Derek's wormed his way onto that list, just as stubborn as Stiles himself.

Maybe his dark heart is a nightmare, but it's one he's chosen himself, not one that fate has forced on him, and if Stiles chose his way in, he can choose his way _out_ of it, too.

There might be something out there, something in the Nemeton, dark and pulsing and determined to pull the world into chaos. But it's not fighting unopposed, and Stiles isn't going to let it win.

He has a chance. Yeah. A pack, and a chance. A burgeoning love to combat the growing nightmare. He has a hell-raising can-do personality, a penchant for trouble, and a spark that can pull a werewolf's Alpha status back to full power.

The odds could be worse. The nightmares could be worse. The world might be scared of monsters, and rightfully so.

But maybe Stiles could give the monsters something to be scared of too.

Maybe he could be the thing that hides under _their_ beds.

Stiles finds himself mirroring Harley's cruel smile, and he sends it back at her until they disappear from sight.

He likes to think the last thing he sees of her is her smile faltering, just a little.

Just enough.


End file.
